


Krayt's Oath

by SnowflakesandMozart



Series: Krayt's Oath 'verse [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Brotherhood, But first there will be drama, Childhood Friends, Darth Vader Redemption, Family Drama, Family Restoration, Forgiveness, Gen, Krayt dragon, Never cross a krayt, Original Cultural Headcanons, Repentance, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Tatooine Slave Revolution (Star Wars), Truth Matters, Truth-telling Matters, and reveals, because i love them, but the implications are clear, but they are also awesome, eventually, maybe not such a minor revolution after all, not to mention the minor matter of a planetary revolution, nothing happens, the clones have sad lives, too many reveals probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 63,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24192202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowflakesandMozart/pseuds/SnowflakesandMozart
Summary: Sixteen years after pledging himself to the Emperor, Darth Vader learns a truth. It is but the first of many. Vader—and the galaxy—will never be the same. Redemption AU.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Kitster Chanchani Banai & Anakin Skywalker, Leia Organa & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader
Series: Krayt's Oath 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088759
Comments: 403
Kudos: 537





	1. Prologue: Dies Irae

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing something I never thought I would; I'm posting an actual story! I wrote this for my daughter, who begged me to write it down, and for my son, who said he would like to read a story like that. And for myself, just to see if I could.
> 
> The original plot germ for Krayt's Oath owes a debt of inspiration to RoxanneRay's story "Recovery" on FF.net. I read the first three chapters as she published them several years ago and was intrigued by the premise. Although this tale takes quite a different tone and tack than hers, her concept provided the original spark for my own ideas.
> 
> Many thanks to my faithful betas: DinoDigger, QueenSqueaker, CLM, and my daughter RecklessRonto. Her fantastic cover art is available with this story on FF.net.
> 
> A note on canon: Episodes I through VI; with lore to suit my purposes drawn from both the EU and Disney (though I have taken artistic license with some details) and a bit of my own world building. AU from the end of ROTS.
> 
> N.B. I made up my own astronomy and medical science. Please ignore any inaccuracies, irregularities, or downright impossibilities.
> 
> Dedication: To my daughter for encouragement, brainstorming, and feedback; my son for asking every time I sat down at my computer, "Mom, are you going to write?" and my husband who, though only a casual SW fan, nevertheless cheered on my new obsession. And to the C and Y families for reasons they will understand.

Darth Vader simmered with irritation. For weeks the holocron in front of him had resisted his efforts to open it. He had surreptitiously accessed his master's private library in the Imperial Palace, certain that Sidious was keeping secrets from him, just as the Jedi Council had. It did not matter in the end. Jedi or Sith, they were all the same. They wanted his power, but only if they could control it. Both kept the deepest secrets of their Orders and the Force from him. But no more. He would not be held back any longer. He was determined to plumb the depths of this particular holocron, which had belonged to Sidious's master, Darth Plagueis. Perhaps at last ( _too late,_ a small voice whispered) he would learn the secret for which he had sold his soul.

With grim resolution, he stoked the fires of the Dark Side until it was a raging inferno within him. Patiently, he bottled it up as Sidious had taught him, concentrating it and honing it until it was a razor-sharp weapon to be directed as he chose. The exacting discipline was exhausting, but at last he leveled the roiling energy at the holocron. It resisted his demand. He persisted, determined to prevail. The struggle continued for an indeterminate period until it submitted to his will at last.

"Who summons me?" the hologram of Darth Plagueis asked.

"Darth Vader." His voice boomed through the vocoder.

"Lord Vader, you have proven worthy to open the holocron. What knowledge do you seek?"

"To learn the secrets of the Sith Order—specifically the method for keeping someone alive through manipulating the midichlorians."

Darth Plagueis's cadaverous image straightened its back and assumed a professorial demeanor. "The Sith Order has long sought a procedure to manipulate the midichlorians to create life spontaneously. This technique has not yet been discovered."

"My master, Darth Sidious, claimed that you had discovered it."

Darth Plagueis paused as the program searched its memory files. "If so, that knowledge has not been recorded within this databank. However, there is a related technique to preserve a dying life. It is time-consuming, complex, and difficult, and it requires an uninhibited connection to the Dark Side. The procedure begins with creating—or in some cases, identifying—a link in the Force between two individuals: the one who is near death and another who is healthy. Through this connection, the Dark Lord can siphon the life energy of the healthy individual into the one who is dying. During the course of the operation, he must concentrate fully upon the process. The least distraction or interruption will result in its failure. However, provided that he is able to maintain the flow of energies between the two persons, the one who was dying will survive. Do you wish to study this technique?"

Vader had listened in fascination at first, but by the end of this speech he was filled with dread. His gut twisted with anxiety and, though he would not acknowledge it, guilt. Darth Plagueis ceased speaking and returned to his neutral posture. It took Vader several long minutes to collect himself enough to say slowly, "Lord Plagueis, what happens to the healthy individual as a result of this _operation_?"

"He dies, of course, Lord Vader. There is always a price. As a Dark Lord of the Sith you already know that all power comes at a cost. The greater the power, the greater the price that must be paid." The holocron fell silent again, and Vader lowered his head. For a long time the only sound in the small room was the rhythmic hiss of his respirator.

So. It had been his fault, after all. He had killed her, in a manner of speaking. It was her life that had sustained his. Grief and guilt threatened to consume him. He wanted to shriek his fury to the stars. Destroy the palace. Even the entire district. Slaughter a legion in a battle frenzy. Choke a hundred incompetent idiots to death.

But his fury was impotent. Distant. Undisciplined and undirected. This was not fury that would aid him in the Dark Side. It was a mass of guilt and regret and heart-wrenching sorrow. He could not summon the discipline necessary to harness it, to shape it into a weapon to wield against his master. Not now that he stared at the devastation of his life. Now that all the masks had been stripped away. Now that he could see clearly exactly how skillfully his master had manipulated him and his fears.

_Only the power of the Dark Side can save her,_ Sidious had said. But he had never intended to use it to save her. Her only value to him had been to bring Vader to his knees before a new master. Once that was accomplished, she was only a liability to him. The truth was ashes in Vader's mouth.

He never knew how long he sat in that darkened room, mourning the ruin of his life. The fall of his last idol. The man he had respected and trusted above all others, who had offered him hope when he was desperate, who had been the only one not to betray him on that last terrible day. Who, in the end, had betrayed him more thoroughly than Kenobi or his wife ever had. It was a bitter truth to swallow—that not even Palpatine had truly valued him. That not one person except his mother had ever wanted him just for himself.

When he rose at last, it was with the bleak determination never to be used again. He could not destroy Sidious. He lacked the necessary resources and had not established a power base. He had not believed he was ready to take over the Empire. Had known that he needed more training. So he had not bothered even to lay the groundwork yet. He supposed he could begin now. Form plans that would come to fruition a decade or two from now. But it seemed like such a waste of effort. He had never particularly cared about the Empire. Or the Republic. He had wanted to gain power so he could save the people he cared about. So he could govern his own life. Well, power had been an illusion. And all the people he cared about were dead. Most of them had betrayed him too. But he could direct his own life. From this day forward, he would call no man _master_. He would please himself and only himself. The galaxy could spin off into the abyss.

He swept the holocron closed. "Thank you, Lord Plagueis."


	2. Interlude I: The Worm Turns

Emperor Palpatine exercised the self-control he had cultivated through decades of public service. The Emperor of the galaxy should be above such impatient fidgeting as tapping his fingers. Lord Vader would certainly experience his displeasure, nevertheless, when he finally deigned to answer this comm. Expecting his apprentice's thrilling death mask to appear above the projection plate, he was unpleasantly startled by the reappearance of Fifth Fleet's hapless admiral. "Where is Lord Vader, Admiral?"

The officer's evident fear left the Emperor unmoved.

"Your Imperial Majesty, I regret that Lord Vader does not appear to be aboard."

"'Does not appear to be aboard?'" The scathing tone could have flayed a colo claw fish. "And why did you not inform me of that fact when I first commanded he speak with me?"

"Y-Y-Your pardon, Your Majesty. I was unaware Lord Vader was not aboard."

"Explain to me, Admiral, how the commander of the fleet could be unaware that his direct superior had departed the ship on which they both serve? Surely there are protocols observed when the Supreme Commander departs the flagship. Are you so incompetent you simply did not notice?"

"Y-Y-Yes, Your Majesty—I m-m-m-mean, no, Your Majesty—that is to say—"

"Enough." Palpatine cut him off with a sharp gesture. "You add incoherence to your other offenses. Why did you not know Lord Vader had departed?"

"He told no one, Your Majesty. His quarters are undisturbed, so far as the crew can tell. The only thing out of the ordinary is that his shuttle is not in its hangar. The last flight logged was Lord Vader's return seven days ago. No subsequent launches were recorded by launch control, and no flight plans were filed. We cannot find any signs of foul play, either."

"Foul play?" Palpatine sneered at the idea of Vader being taken unaware by some attacker. Except himself, of course. But his apprentice always expected foul play from his master.

"It was only one possibility, Your Majesty. But we felt we had to consider every—"

"Yes, yes." An impatient wave of the Emperor's hand cut off the blathering. "You are immediately relieved of your post and retired, Admiral. Command of Fifth Fleet will be assumed by Admiral Losstar." Palpatine cut off the connection.

He paced his private holocomm chamber. What was Vader up to? He had been known on occasion to leave the flagship to attend to his own projects. Never before, however, had he slipped away with no one the wiser. This must be kept quiet. Since the crew of the Exactor knew Vader had disappeared, it would be necessary to create some private mission he was executing for the Emperor. Perhaps a missed communiqué could explain why the Emperor had been unaware of his departure. He clenched his teeth. Such a fabrication should satisfy those who were aware of the situation, but it would damage slightly his carefully cultivated image of perfect control of the Empire. It was imperative that Vader be found and brought to heel immediately. Time to call in the experts.

Passing his chief of staff's desk on his way back to his office, he said, "Sornhaw, get me Colonel Yularen."

* * *

Colonel Yularen, white-haired head of the Naval Intelligence Agency and one of the Emperor's most trusted aides, bowed before the Emperor's desk in his lavish private office. "Your Imperial Majesty, I regret to inform you that the NIA and the ISB have both found no further trace of Lord Vader. As you directed, agents have double- and triple-checked all locations where he might be hiding."

"And the Naberries of Naboo? You have questioned them?"

"Yes, Majesty. They were quite puzzled and insisted they had had no contact with him, other than Senator Naberrie's official duties. Examination of her personal and senatorial files seems to bear that out."

"What of Tatooine?"

"The agents who visited the planet reported no activity by anyone matching Lord Vader's description. The local situation is, of course, complicated by the criminal activity sanctioned by the Hutts, but it does seem clear that he is not there. The parallel inquiries for the name Skywalker also turned up nothing of interest." Yularen's piercing blue eyes gave no flicker to betray his memory of a Jedi knight of that name. "There were a few people who remembered a woman called Skywalker. She lived in the city of Mos Espa and later married a farmer from the wastelands. But she has been dead for over twenty years. There were also rumors that someone of that name won some local race about thirty years ago. But the rumors were contradictory, and my agents reported that some seemed exaggerated."

"Exaggerated?"

"A few of the people questioned indicated that the Skywalker who won the race had been a child at the time. Obviously, that is ridiculous. The tales have become corrupted over time—if anyone named Skywalker even did race. It's supposed to be impossible for humans. In any case, nothing relevant today."

Palpatine absorbed this news in silence. The ancient reports of Skywalker held as much value as the other information the investigation had turned up. It had been nearly six months since Lord Vader vanished without a trace. The known facts were that seven days before his disappearance was discovered, he had liquidated all his accounts and boarded his shuttle, bound for Bannistar where his flagship was refueling and re-supplying. He arrived on schedule and resumed his duties. Three days later, he attended a command meeting in the morning, followed by two hours of paperwork. No further activity had been registered until his shuttle launched surreptitiously while the final supply freighter decoupled from the freight hangar bay. The launch control computer had been programmed to ignore the shuttle, which had sheltered in the mass shadow of the freighter as the Exactor jumped to hyperspace. The shuttle's transponder had been identified in the Bannistar fleet traffic control system and its hyperspace vector tracked, but no further trace of it had been found.

The Imperial Security Bureau and the Naval Intelligence Agency had both combed through the Exactor's logs for any further clues without success. Vader's shuttle transponder code was flagged in all planetary traffic control systems, military and civilian alike. His codes were deactivated and monitored. Any attempt on his part to access Imperial systems would trip a notification at both the ISB and the NIA. Under the guise of annual performance reviews and loyalty checks, the communications of every admiral, grand admiral, and moff had been examined for ties to Lord Vader and evidence of a conspiracy.

Despite all the manpower and resources expended, not one clue had turned up to indicate where Lord Vader had gone. Darth Sidious was certain the man was still alive, though it was only the lack of backlash in the Force, such as would attend the death of a powerful Sith Lord, that gave him reason to believe it to be true. Even meditation had given him no hint of Vader's whereabouts. The man had vanished in the Force as thoroughly as he had vanished from the galaxy.

* * *

"Citizens of the great Galactic Empire, I rejoice as we celebrate together another anniversary of that day which saw the corrupt, ineffective Republic transformed by the will of the people and the senate into our peaceful and secure Empire." Palpatine delivered his speech from the dais in his throne room. He usually made this address on the plaza before the Imperial Palace as the climax of a military parade, but he refused to make himself so accessible to the still-missing Darth Vader. The longer his apprentice's absence continued, the more convinced he was that Vader was plotting against him.

"I renew my pledge to you to lead this Empire from strength to strength. New military initiatives continue to secure our borders under the command of the navy's Acting Supreme Commander, Admiral Losstar." He desperately wanted to hint at the Death Star, but the blasted production delays continued. Next Empire Day. His engineers assured him that the superlaser would be ready for testing within the year and that the final touches in construction were nearing completion. Once the last wedges of the focusing disc were installed and properly tuned, the station would be operational.

Now for the gambit he hoped would lure his apprentice from whatever dank hole he was crouching in. "It is with a heavy heart, however, that I must darken this glorious day with news that reached me only yesterday. It is now confirmed that Lord Darth Vader, the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy, went missing while on a classified mission. It has been six months since his disappearance without a trace, and in accordance with Imperial law, he is presumed killed in action. Lord Vader was an integral part of the establishment of the Empire and the defeat of the traitorous Jedi. He served faithfully as commander of the military. And he was a personal friend. His loss saddens us all. Nevertheless, he would wish us not to grieve over his death but to carry on the great work of bringing order and peace to the galaxy, the work to which he dedicated his life. May his memory be ever blessed. Admiral Losstar's position as Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy and his promotion to Grand Admiral are hereby confirmed. We believe that he will command the navy with the same dedication and discipline that Lord Vader did. This is the memorial Lord Vader would truly want." The accolades nearly choked him, but he had spent a lifetime speaking honeyed words to obtain his goals. If a little undeserved praise would solidify his power and draw out his quarry simultaneously—well, then, so be it.

"In spite of this grave news, I assure you that this Empire is stronger today than ever before. We rededicate ourselves to its prosperity. Our children will know benefits such as the galaxy has never seen before. Long live the Empire!"

Usually at this point, the crowd gave a great roar of acclaim. No doubt they were doing so as his speech was broadcast through giant projectors, but he found the lack of response rather anticlimactic. It irked him that Vader's disappearance spoiled even this glorious moment. He anticipated this speech all year and now he had had to spend half of it on Vader. Irritated, he brushed aside Sornhaw's attempt to waylay him and retreated to his private quarters.

* * *

On the other side of the galaxy, Vader quietly departed the exclusive medical center where he had spent the past six months. The center's reputation rested on its complete discretion in regard to its patients. Assured that the Emperor desired he receive full treatment for his injuries away from the public eye in order to facilitate several projects vital to the security of the Empire, the doctors had promised that no one would learn of his stay. Running the preflight checks of the small star yacht Freedom, he noticed the date. How strange, yet fitting. It was the seventeenth Empire Day. And the last one he planned ever to observe.


	3. East, West, Hame's Best

Vader stood outside the docking bay, at a loss for his next step. The suns beat down relentlessly and the wind tugged on his hood. He grasped it firmly with one hand. His face and scalp were bone white after a decade and a half in the suit; they were decidedly not ready to handle the glare of the twin suns.

The discreet medical care he had sought after leaving the Empire had freed him from the bulky life support, replacing it with a small panel on his chest that regulated his heartbeat and monitored his oxygen levels. It could supplement his breathing when necessary from a miniature oxygen canister on his belt. He had almost gleefully bundled the suit and his lightsaber into a crate, which he had jettisoned during a brief navigation stop. He had never felt such satisfaction at a target's destruction as had surged through him when the torpedo vaporized the remnants of his old life.

But what now?

He idly wandered the streets of Mos Espa, sand already infiltrating the joints of his new, lighter prosthetics. He was going to have to clean them every day at this rate. But he was certain the one place Sidious would never look for him was Mos Espa. Or perhaps Naboo. But Naboo would be far too risky a hiding place. Not to mention far too painful. At least on Tatooine his dark memories of slavery were balanced by the joy of his mother's memory. He could endure the sand if it meant his old master never troubled him again. And even should the traitor suspect he had taken refuge here, he would send agents before coming himself. They would find no trace of Darth Vader in Kaneis Kraytrider. The reference was too obscure to give anyone not closely familiar with the culture of Tatooine's natives and slaves a hint of his true identity.

He was bored. Just six months of freedom, and he was already bored. He needed to find something to occupy his time, but nothing suggested itself. Habit carried his feet into the slave quarters, but the stench was unbearable and the accumulated misery of generations poisoned the Force. He quickly made his way back into the commercial center of town. Loitering in the marketplace, he overheard two men discussing the sale of a local junk shop and repair business. He lingered near them, a faint interest stirring. He had always enjoyed repairing things—slave, Jedi, or Sith, he had consistently enjoyed only two pleasures: flying and tinkering with machinery.

Impulsively, he inquired how to contact the agent charged with selling the shop. An hour later he was striding down a familiar street. He wanted to curse the Force when the agent led him to the door of Watto's old shop. He nearly walked away without a word, but something—curiosity? nostalgia?—led him to follow the agent inside. The place was much as he remembered it: dim front room stuffed with parts and broken machinery; large bright courtyard overflowing with ship components and defunct vaporators; tiny living quarters tucked to one side. There was even a garage at the rear of the courtyard adequate to house the _Freedom_. He could almost see his mother behind the counter working on the accounts. Oddly, he did not sense Watto's presence, and memories of the Toydarian did not trouble him. Perhaps because in retrospect, Watto had not been a bad master as masters went. At least Watto had never feigned affection or pretended to be anything other than what he was. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was transferring funds to the agent's account and accepting the deed to the property—and Watto's slave.

After the agent left, Vader turned to the green-skinned Rodian. "What is your name?" he said in Huttese.

"Nazwirn Theec," the slave answered, his large black eyes apprehensive and his antenna lowered respectfully.

"What can you tell me about the former owner of the shop?"

"Watto owned this shop a long time. Decades, I think. He—he was a good master. Didn't beat me unless I did something wrong. He provided adequate rations and replaced my clothes every year. Yes, he was a good master."

"That's enough of the lies for the master," Vader snapped. "Tell me the truth."

"The—the truth? That is the truth, Master." Theec drew his shoulders forward as though expecting a blow.

"I am not your master. I am no one's master." Vader snarled the final word, flinging his anger into the room.

Theec seemed to shrink in on himself even further. "No. No, of course not. Whatever you say, Master. It's just that—my ownership is attached to the shop."

"I realize that. I have the blasted transmitter right here. I mean, I am freeing you." Theec seemed nonplussed by Vader's bitter tone. Vader activated the transmitter. "Do you know where your tracker is?"

Theec shook his head timidly.

"Very well. Stand still." Vader passed the instrument across Theec's body until the lights activated. He pressed the code to deactivate the bomb and handed the transmitter to Theec. "I'll get the forms filled out in a moment. Now, why is this shop for sale?"

Theec was staring at the transmitter in his hands in wonder. When he did not reply after a short pause, Vader prompted him. "Theec?"

He looked up at last and said, "Err, Watto died about a month ago. His heirs didn't want it, so they put it up for sale. At least, that's what I heard when the lawyer and agent were here inspecting the premises."

"Hmmm." Vader began to pace slowly. "Does the shop do good business?"

"I think so. I kept the books, and it always looked like it made a profit. But Watto never had money. Gambling."

"Yes, a common pastime for him, I believe. How did you come into his possession?"

"He won me." Shame tinged the Force around him a sickly yellow.

Vader nodded and continued to pace for a time. Eventually he stopped by the counter where he had placed the box with the deeds. He poked around until he found a working datapad. The shop was not nearly as well organized as his mother had kept it, but Watto's general system had not changed in decades. He copied Theec's slave deed onto the datapad but realized he couldn't quite make out the section for manumission. With a sigh, he groped in his pocket for the reading glasses the doctor had prescribed and completed the form. Then he held the datapad out toward Theec, who just stared at it. Vader shook it slightly and pushed it against Theec's hand. "Here. Take it."

Theec finally looked up at him hesitantly. "You are—truly freeing me?"

"Yes. Now go on. Take it and go on your way."

"But, Master—" he interrupted himself as Vader's brow darkened "—sir, I mean. Where do I go? I have no job. Even my house belonged to Watto."

Vader hadn't known that the slave hovel belonged to Watto, but he supposed he should have guessed. And he ought to have realized that he couldn't just push the fellow out with no plan. "All right. You may continue to work here. Not permanently. But for a time. Until you find other employment for yourself."

Theec twitched his ears in the Rodian equivalent of a smile. "Thank you, Ma—sir." The ears grew still. "I can see that calling you master irritates you, but—I can't seem to help it."

Vader's jaw rippled. "I see. I suppose I can understand that. In that case, you had better call me Kraytrider." Theec's antenna jerked in surprise. Vader ignored it. "I shall have to pay you. The difficulty is that I have no idea what salary is appropriate. Nor what this shop can afford."

"If you do not indulge in expensive entertainment such as gambling, I believe it can easily sustain a salary of twenty wupiupi a week."

"That seems a paltry sum. Let us say thirty-two wupiupi per week."

Theec stared at him in amazement. Vader did not know what to do with the gratitude suffusing his new employee's face and infusing the Force with rose and violet, so he briskly turned back to the counter. "Now, I wish to see the books."

"Yes, Ma—sir—Kraytrider."

Much later Vader stood alone in the shop, a single lamp providing inadequate illumination. Theec appeared to know the business well, if only he would stop stumbling over what to call Vader. He still felt a curl of disgust in his gut at the thought that he had owned a slave, however briefly. He had been so dazed by his own impulsivity that he had not even realized Theec was included in the sale until the agent handed him the transmitter.

He shrugged, trying to throw off his discomfort. The situation was resolved now, even if he had picked up an employee unintentionally. But let that be the end of it. He would live for himself alone from now on. Let the Force send whom it would. Kaneis Kraytrider was done with the affairs of the galaxy.


	4. No Place Like Home

One morning, several weeks after purchasing the shop, Vader abandoned his physical therapy exercises in response to a signal from his life support system. He sank awkwardly into the worn armchair in his living quarters, lifted his tunic, and swapped the small, flat oxygen canister at his hip. The soft beeping that indicated low reserves ceased. The canisters usually lasted about a week, but he made it a habit to check the supply daily; he never wanted to find out what would happen if the canister ran dry. After snapping the empty canister into an oxygen concentrator to be refilled, he popped open the access panel of his left leg. He had cleaned all four limbs the evening before in what had become a nightly ritual, but a little sand was still caught in the knee, causing the joint to grate roughly as it bent. To the accompaniment of a slight tickling sensation, he ran the small wand-shaped vacuum he had designed for the purpose between the two titanium support rods of his leg. He flexed the knee, satisfied that it was functioning smoothly again.

He stood and made his way to the kitchen. As a boy he had never seen the interior of Watto's rooms, and he had been pleasantly surprised to find them moderately comfortable. He had replaced the nest in one corner with a proper bed, sized to accommodate his height, and purchased a secondhand but comfortable chair; otherwise he had made no changes. The rooms were small, but then again, they were larger than a hyperbaric chamber. He had been surprised to discover that there was a certain pleasure in relaxing in the combined living and kitchen area in the evenings. He had even moved a couple of projects into his quarters so that he would have something to do.

In what had become another ritual, Theec knocked at the apartment door to signal his arrival. Vader had tried to convince his accidental employee that it was unnecessary to begin work so early, but he knew from experience it took a long time to unlearn the habits of slavery. While Vader ate a light breakfast and straightened his quarters, Theec opened the shop, dusted the counter, and busied himself in the courtyard with the ongoing inventory.

Watto's records from the past year were spotty. He had been ill, and the shop had fallen into disarray. Theec had apologized for his laxity in record-keeping, but Vader thought it perfectly understandable. Theec's present industriousness was all the more impressive by contrast.

Vader entered the shop and checked the day's work orders. Seeing no outstanding repair jobs, he scooped up a selection of tools and resumed his efforts with the hydraulic arms of the heavy lifter. According to Theec, the lifter had not functioned in over a year. Vader was finding the repair a challenge due to the combination of the machine's age and the heavy toll of neglect and sand. Thus far he had used parts already in the shop, but he was beginning to think he might have to order new pistons and rods from off-world. Before he did that, though, he wanted to see if he could pull off one of the old miracles. It had been decades since he had had to fully exercise his ingenuity in a repair.

From his work area, he could not see into the shop, which was one of the reasons he wanted to fix this machine as soon as possible. Several bulky, heavy engines blocked the east pathway through the courtyard and, incidentally, his view of the shop from where he was working. He could, of course, move the engines with the Force; it was doubtful he would even find it taxing. But he remained firm in his resolve not to use the energy field, even for such a small job. His resolution had formed even before he abandoned the _Exactor_ , determined to leave no trace for Palpatine to follow.

He refused to acknowledge any deeper motivation—that he hated the Force for all it had done to ruin his life and the lives of those he loved. What good was it to have access to the power of the ages if he could not save anyone he loved? His long years of bondage to Palpatine had carried a great price but with no benefit to himself. No, he was finished with the Force, whether or not it was finished with him. He might not be able to give up his Force sensitivity, but that was no reason he had to use the blasted energy field. He could devote several days—even weeks if necessary—to repairing the lifter. Besides, he had no more-pressing projects at hand.

Several hours later, in response to the door chime, he rose stiffly from his knees, legs wobbly. The medical care had done wonders for his quality of life and had eased his chronic pain, but his thighs invariably ached when he knelt for long. At least he was choosing to kneel for his own purposes and not at the Emperor's whim. His legs had often gone into spasms during long periods bowed before his master. Palpatine had been well aware of the agony kneeling caused him and had gloried in it. Of course, he had always couched his insistence on the posture in terms of strengthening Vader's connection to the Dark Side, but Vader had known the truth. Palpatine made him kneel simply because he could.

He strode as steadily as he could manage into the shop. A middle-aged man a little over medium height with weather-beaten dark skin stood by the counter.

"Can I help you?" Vader rasped in Huttese.

"I need a pair of large capacitors for a solar plate," the man replied in the same language.

Vader located the capacitors after rummaging briefly. As they concluded the sale, the man said, "I'm glad someone bought the shop. It's the best-stocked junk yard in Mos Espa." He held out his hand. "Kitster Banai."

Vader's breath caught and his eyes sharpened. Yes, it was Kitster. Haltingly, he met the other's hand and squeezed. "Kaneis Kraytrider," he said slowly.

"Kraytrider, eh? That's not a name you hear often." Banai's tone was intrigued.

"I suppose not."

"There must be quite a story behind it." Even when they were boys, Kit had been marked by blithe curiosity and a serene confidence that others would satisfy it.

Vader refused to take the bait. "Not really."

"If you ever change your mind, I'd be very interested to hear it. Even if it's as unexciting as you imply." Kit smiled winsomely.

Vader gave a noncommittal grunt.

Abandoning his efforts (temporarily, if Vader knew anything about this old friend), Kit said, "Say, I was wondering…Watto had a slave who worked here. Nazwirn Theec? I'm pretty sure his ownership was going to be transferred with the shop."

"Theec!" Vader called.

The Rodian darted in from the courtyard. "Yes, Kraytrider?"

"Not me. Him. He was asking about you." Vader feigned indifference and stepped behind the counter.

Banai said, "I just wanted to see if you're still here, Theec. I heard that the shop sold."

Theec twitched his ears in a Rodian smile. "Yes, I'm still here. Kraytrider freed me the very first day and now employs me at a rate of two truguts per week."

Banai's eyes grew round. "Really." He glanced at Vader. "That is unexpected but very happy news, Theec. I'm impressed, Kraytrider. There aren't many who would be so generous."

"It's not generosity," Vader said, picking up a datapad at random. "I will never own a slave. As for the employment—I simply gave him a job until he can find something else."

Banai studied him intently. Vader ignored him. "In that case, I withdraw my compliment. It was not at all generous." His lips twitched. "Regardless, I'm glad you're so well situated, Theec. I'll see you on my next visit."

Vader was watching out of the corner of his eye as Banai signaled in the slaves' sign language, _"Meet tonight. Same place. Inform about sanctuary."_

Theec indicated his acquiescence, and Banai left the shop.

Vader briefly considered inquiring into their venture, but since he was fairly certain he already knew, there really was no need. Why should he care about escaped slaves? If Theec wanted to assist runaways, Vader wouldn't stop him, but that didn't mean he had to take any interest in the endeavor.


	5. A Quenchless Star

Over the following weeks, Vader's life settled into a routine. Theec proved an excellent employee, despite his involvement in the slaves' underground, continuing to arrive early and frequently volunteering to stay late. Some evenings Vader nearly had to chase him out of the shop. Banai dropped by irregularly—usually at least once every two weeks. Ostensibly he was always in search of some inexpensive part, but invariably he signaled to Theec before leaving. He persisted in attempting to engage Vader in conversation on sundry topics and seemed impervious to even the broadest hints.

It was late morning and Banai had just left, after yet another attempt to strike up a conversation. Feeling rather put out by Kit's refusal to take no for an answer and his open curiosity over the name Kraytrider, Vader began to run through a series of flexibility exercises he had learned as a padawan. He had started doing these recently to supplement his physical therapy exercises, but they had also turned out to be a valuable release valve when his irritation threatened to explode. He was pleased to note that his muscles were becoming more supple by the day. A week ago, he had attempted to take a run before sunrise, craving the burn of a hard workout, but neither his respiratory system nor his prosthetics were up to the job. Instead of running, he had taken to walking vigorously for several kilometers in the early mornings, and his life support system indicated that his aerobic capacity was increasing as well.

Completing the exercises and bringing his annoyance to heel, he moved to his workbench, which was overflowing with projects. In addition to repair jobs for customers, he was building a number of gadgets for his own benefit. The first had been the vacuum for his prosthetics. He was still wrestling with the heavy lifter and had finally conceded defeat, ordering rods and pistons from offworld. The order had not yet arrived, so in the meantime he was re-engineering a defunct mouse droid to carry tools around the shop. He was a little puzzled how an Imperial mouse droid had ended up in a junk pile in his shop, but a thorough examination of it had revealed no malware or spy programs. Nevertheless, he had replaced all the memory and programming components in an abundance of caution. He ought to work on Sunstrider's vaporator sensor, but the droid was nearly complete and he was eager to put it to use.

He did not want to admit to himself that he was restless and even bored, despite the fact that the business was doing well. He had a number of regular customers in addition to Banai, though he was grateful no one else seemed to have ulterior motives. The occasional spacer dropped in, searching for parts to repair a ship before taking off again, and he was pleased he had not lost the knack of distinguishing the true locals from the more affluent migrants who came to do business with the Hutts.

He hated the Hutts and fantasized on occasion about murdering Jabba, though he reluctantly refrained. While the project would certainly present a challenge to relieve his unacknowledged boredom, an assassination would also draw the Empire's attention. From there it would be a short step to discovery by Sidious.

He had not owned the shop a week when the Hutt flunkies showed up demanding protection money. He had refused to cooperate, ignoring Theec's tremulous advice to accept the terms. The memory of Hutt extortion and his mother's fear sat so deep in his bones, he could remember no time he had not known of it. He had vowed then that someday he would have the power to fight back. Facing them now, he found his resolution not to use the Force was not equal to the temptation to terrorize the scumbags. Almost gleefully, he had fed his anger and the threat of violence into the Force. The Hutt minions were remarkably resistant to the menacing aura, but they eventually succumbed and left. He wondered vaguely how they had explained that to Jabba.

Dismissing the recollection, he tightened the final bolt on the mouse droid's footplate, unaware that he was humming roughly, and held the droid under his powerful work lamp for examination. Satisfied, he booted it up and set it on the ground. Before he could attach the tool caddy he had designed, it zipped away, whirring happily. He shrugged. It was probably best to wait until it had mapped the shop.

The door chimed. Ah, another regular. This one was a girl—about sixteen or seventeen from the look of her—dressed in the plain, practical garments of the moisture farmers. Her tunic was not quite white, but light enough to reflect the suns' heat. She wore durable leggings and boots, a drab cape over her shoulders. As she stepped out of the sun, she pushed her hood off her brown hair, worn in practical braids pinned to her head. He was always slightly surprised to find her carrying a carbine rifle that was nearly as long as she was tall. It was a weapon for the desert, meant for distance. Not the sort of firearm to use in a city. Still, he supposed it might deter criminals and could probably be used as a staff in a pinch. She smiled at him.

"Good afternoon, Kraytrider," she said in Standard with a hint of a refined accent. She did not seem to speak Huttese, though she understood it well enough. Her accent would have puzzled him, if he were taking an interest in people. Which he was not. Nevertheless, that slight Core inflection was curious. But none of his business. "I need three cans of lubricant, half a dozen size 14 gears, a can of ball bearings, and a box of gauge 6 duranium bolts. And a shaft for a KynTech autowrench." She sighed. "I didn't notice that the sand had corroded the external bolt, and I put too much pressure when I tried to loosen it. The shaft bent."

"You're here earlier than usual." Vader began gathering the items she had rattled off from the shelves of small parts along the shop's west wall.

"You always seem to have everything I need. I decided to come here first, even though you're the farthest away. If you don't have something, I can look at the other shops. And my uncle insisted on leaving earlier today. He's concerned about reports from some of the moisture farmers that the Sand People have been raiding again."

Vader's nostrils flared at the mention of the Tusken Raiders. He clenched his fist for a moment before deliberately relaxing and resuming his task. "I see. Wise of him, I suppose. Where is he? I've never seen him."

The girl leaned against the counter. "He's buying our dry goods and produce. We used to do all the shopping together, but since I turned twelve, he turned shopping for parts over to me. I do most of the repair work; it makes sense that I get the parts. And it means we can leave town earlier, so we're less likely to get caught out in the desert after dark. That happened once when I was younger. It was after that my uncle started sending me to the junk yards."

Vader frowned. "It's dangerous to be out in the desert after nightfall."

The girl rolled her eyes. "I _know_ that. Like I said, that's why we split the shopping now."

The tone alone would once have provoked him to murder. Now he did his best to ignore his irritation as he gathered the last few pieces of hardware. "I don't have the KynTech shaft on the shelf."

"That's all right. I can check the other shops."

"First let me see if there are any in the back." Leaving the rest of the order on the counter, he went to find Theec in the courtyard.

"A KynTech shaft?" Theec said. "Mmmm, maybe. I'll have to poke around. I think there were some tool pieces in this pile."

Fifteen minutes later, they had to admit defeat.

"I'm sure we have it. I just can't put my hand on it. This is my fault for not keeping up with the inventory when Watto was sick." Theec's antennae drooped in apology.

"It's no matter. But I agree it will be good when the inventory is done." Vader returned to the shop, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior. For a moment he thought the girl had left, but then he spotted her standing by his workbench near the door. "I'm sorry; I don't have the handle."

She made a wild grab for something that fell from her hands, snatching it right before it hit the workbench. Her posture reeked of guilt. She set the item down and turned to him, avoiding his eyes, her cheeks bright pink.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"What? Oh—no. No. I just—you just—startled me…"

The Force was tinged a sickly greenish yellow around her, a color Vader associated with evasiveness. He approached the bench to catch a glimpse of what she had been holding. She sidled away. The cause of her agitation revealed itself to be the faulty vaporator sensor Sunstrider had dropped off that morning.

"I—I—" she said, her voice small. She gripped her hands until the fingernails turned pale. "I know I shouldn't have touched…" Her words trailed away. She swallowed. Her fingers flicked against one another. "Please don't be angry. You were gone so long and—I was bored. I…I—I didn't break anything—I promise! I'll pay for it, though—if you want me to…" The whisper died away.

Vader picked up the sensor, inspecting it from all angles. He put his glasses on and looked more closely. "You repaired it." His tone was blank.

"I know I shouldn't have," she blurted. "I—well, it was there and—and I thought I could do something productive. You know. While I waited…" When Vader said nothing, she babbled, "My—my uncle always tells me to, you know, do something productive with my hands so I don't lose time. But I—I know he would say I shouldn't have—"

Unexpectedly, a long-forgotten mission with Kenobi presented itself in his mind's eye. Of himself, a padawan somewhat younger than the girl, bored while his master negotiated some long-irrelevant dispute, and the small defunct droid he had found in a corner. Also of his master's embarrassment that his padawan had repaired the droid without permission. He had not appreciated the lack of scolding at the time, but now he recognized that Kenobi must have wanted to deliver one of his scathing rebukes. Instead, he had apologized for the infraction while turning it to good account in the negotiations. Only later, in private, had he gently reprimanded his padawan.

Vader waved his hand, brushing aside her apologies and the curiously painless memory with a single gesture. "I'm not angry. And you've done fine work. The customer who brought this in is a decent mechanic, and he told me he had tried three times to fix it." He eyed her narrowly. "You seem to know your way around vaporator parts."

She smiled, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "Like I told you, I do most of the repairs at home. My uncle says I got my talented hands from my dad."

Vader ignored the invitation to discuss her personal life. "Well, I see no cause for complaint here. I do recommend asking for permission before you handle other people's property, though."

"I know. I promise I won't do it again." The Force had returned to its usual fiery orange and gold corona around her. Vader suspected she had a mercurial temperament, though he had never seen a display of it.

"As there's no harm done, let's move on."

She nodded gratefully.

He returned to the pile of parts on the counter and tallied the prices. "That's three truguts." He glanced up. "More than your usual order."

"Yeah. The sandstorm season always does a number on the vaporators and the generator. It's okay; I expected it." A few moments later she was gone. Vader returned to the sensor, studying it with interest. It really was quite a skillful repair. Smiling faintly, he placed it in a box and notified Sunstrider that it was ready.

* * *

He stood on the balcony at Varykino. The most glorious sunset of his life bathed the world in a rosy golden glow. He looked to his right, and there she was—radiant with love, vibrant with life, exquisite in delicate lace and pearls. Padmé gazed at him with complete trust. Before his eyes, her abdomen swelled until she was heavily pregnant, her smile bright with anticipation. Still in her wedding gown, smiling with joy, she put her hand to her throat. She gasped and struggled, and her smile became a rictus. Yet even now, her eyes were filled with trust. All at once, her form melted and she became the girl from the shop. The girl glared at him, a fiery nimbus encompassing her in the Force. She fought violently against the grip on her throat until she fell to the ground. But now she was Padmé again, lying on the hardstand in the hellish red glow of Mustafar, hair spread around her like a pall.

Vader jerked awake, heart fighting to pound despite his pacemaker. He sat up. He had long ago resigned himself to Padmé haunting his dreams, but this had been worse than usual. He shuddered. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and changed into dry clothes. Despite his gritty eyes, there was no chance he would sleep again tonight. He shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his cloak, and strode into the darkness.

He walked rapidly, hoping to leave his distress and the choking despair behind him. Why did he always wake from these dreams feeling that he had betrayed her? She had betrayed him. She and Kenobi both. Even after all these years, the knowledge stung like bile in the back of his throat. The two people he had trusted above all others. And when his choices did not fit their vision for his life, they had conspired together to destroy him.

He should have known he couldn't trust anyone. For a few glorious years he had believed that in her he had found companionship to drive away the loneliness and the fear. But she had rejected his sacrifice. Didn't she understand? He had grasped at power, but only in order to save her life. He had willingly laid down his freedom so that she could live. And she had rejected it. Had said she could not follow him. Would not follow him. Had she thought he would allow _her_ to be enslaved, just because he had submitted to a new master on her behalf?

He was not really surprised anymore by Kenobi's betrayal. He had never measured up to his master's exacting standards. His rejection of the Jedi lies had merely provided a respectable pretext for Kenobi to reject him in turn. The cruelty of leaving him to burn to death did not surprise him either. No Jedi would ever show mercy to a Sith, no matter what they might be to one another. Kenobi had believed Vader was as good as dead. Why bother going to the effort to stab him? Truly, he had been as good as dead. If Sidious had not come, he would have died on the black sand beside the lava, choking on the ashes. For so long, Palpatine had been all that remained, and he had been grateful, in spite of the Emperor's cruelty, not to be alone. To have one person in his life who had not betrayed him.

It had been bitter indeed to discover the truth.

And so, in the end, he was truly alone. Abandoned by everyone. He remembered the enthusiastic boy who had wanted to visit every star in the galaxy. The memory bit like acid. That boy had been so eager. So trusting. So unaware of the endless betrayals ahead of him. Better he had remained here with his mother in bondage. He had reached for freedom and power and love; he had ended enslaved and impotent and forsaken. Well, he had been a slow pupil, but he had learned the lesson at last. To trust was to welcome betrayal and abandonment. Perhaps he and Kitster had been friends once, but he would not fall into that trap again, no matter how eagerly Banai sought him out. He would live to please himself. Isolation was the price for freedom. And in the end, it was not so steep a price as that for love.

His emotions burned out at last. He stood at the edge of town. The desert stretched into dim infinity before him—chill, aloof, merciless. He shivered and wrapped his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. It seemed absurd that anyone could believe that the impersonal desert would ever offer help to a slave as the old legends held. What foolishness! Tales for children and the credulous. Yet though he knew better, a small boy deep within him yearned for redress for all he had suffered. If only, said that little boy. If only there really were something out there that would help him achieve justice against his master. That would give him purpose and a place in the galaxy. The Force would not do it. What had the Force ever cared for him, except as the avatar of some failed prophecy?

Hopeless, he gazed at the seven stars that made up the Great Krayt, floating silently near the horizon. They were nothing more than points of light. Giant balls of fiery gas at an unimaginable distance. Their chance resemblance to some desert predator endued them with no true power or significance.

He had not expected when he assumed the name Kraytrider that anyone would take the implications seriously. He had hoped it would serve as a notice to leave him alone, but he had not imagined anyone would associate him with the legends. Kit's assumption that the name implied a story—moreover, a story he might want to tell—was inconvenient at the least and possibly dangerous. If Palpatine did send agents to Tatooine, Kit's curiosity could expose him. It was too late, though. Changing it now would only create even greater interest. Striding briskly toward the shop, he tried to outpace his impossible longings and burgeoning anxieties.


	6. Oh, What a Tangled Web

Vader was absorbed in repairing the humidifier for a starship ventilation system while Theec completed the monthly accounting. A week had passed since his nightmare. It was a relief that the intervening dreams had not been so intense. He had dreamed of Padmé nightly, but he had become accustomed to that long ago.

Shortly before closing, Banai wandered in. Vader ignored him, expecting him to make his usual minor purchase and send his coded message to Theec. This time, however, he did not even make a pretense of doing business. He signaled, something Vader didn't catch, and Theec began lowering the shades.

"Theec, what are you doing?" Vader demanded.

Banai waved his hand in a signal that meant, " _Wait_." Vader sat back on his stool, seething. Theec placidly continued closing the shop.

Kitster grinned broadly. With no attempt at secrecy he signaled, " _I know you understand_."

Vader glared at him. "What is the meaning of this, Banai? You do not have the right to come in here and start ordering my employee around."

"I know that," he said, still grinning. "I was confirming a suspicion."

"What _suspicion_?"

"That you are in fact a former slave. You know the signals."

The atmosphere turned frigid. "I do not care to discuss my history. Now get out. Since you've taken it upon yourself to close my shop, I shall call it a day." He strode toward his rooms.

"Wait," called Kitster, "I need to talk to you."

Not quite understanding why he paused, Vader turned back slightly, one hand on the door frame. "Then talk quickly."

"It's plain you understand slavery. The first thing you did after you bought the shop was to free Theec. He told me how you loathe the word 'master.' You knew how vital it was to deactivate his tracker immediately. And of course, there's your name. You're an escaped slave."

Vader's hand clenched so hard it crushed some of the plaster that formed the door frame. "And if I am?" He addressed his door. "What is that to you?"

"You know. How humiliating it is. How degrading." Kit's voice was loaded with unaccustomed gravity. "All my friends were slaves when I was a boy. Only one of us was freed legally—my best friend. Someone from the Core won him and set him free. When I saw Ani leave, I swore I would be free someday too. I worked hard and earned enough money to buy my freedom. I don't know what happened to my friend—I think he's dead now. But we dreamed of bringing freedom to our people. And though he isn't here to do it with me, I still want to free slaves."

"That's a dangerous business, Banai."

"Yes. But it's good work. And I think you could help."

Vader stiffened, still facing his apartment's door. "I have no interest in helping. Yes, I was a slave once. And, yes, I've escaped. Now I just want to be left alone."

"You're a good man, Kaneis Kraytrider. Whoever you really are. You wouldn't have cared enough to free Theec if you weren't. And you wouldn't have ignored all those signals I've been sending him. You could help us—a lot, I think." Kitster's voice held an earnest note Vader refused to acknowledge.

"What do you want from me?" Vader shifted his head enough to see Kitster out of the corner of his eye.

"We need a place to hide escaping slaves."

"I don't have a safe room."

"Actually, you do." Kitster's triumphant grin was audible. "My friend Ani that I mentioned? His mom used to hide escaping slaves right here in this shop."

Vader whirled. _"What?!_ What did you say?"

Kitster appeared taken aback by Vader's vehemence. "I—I said that slaves used to hide here until they could be transported elsewhere."

"No. Before that. Your friend's mother hid them?" Vader's voice sounded strangled to his own ears.

"Yes. We didn't know when we were boys. I heard about it later from my mom. Miss Shmi was freed by a moisture farmer and moved away when I was thirteen. But my mom told me that she had hid slaves here for years, right under Watto's nose."

Vader turned away again, afraid his expression would betray him. "How—how did she do that?"

"There's a safe room in the east wall of the courtyard. The door is hidden, and there's a big pile of heavy junk in front of it. Watto went to the cantinas every night to gamble, so Miss Shmi knew when she could slip into the shop without Watto knowing."

Vader thought of the nights his mother had taken a walk after he was in bed. She had told him she needed that small taste of freedom to bear the days. How many times had she actually been smuggling people into the shop? Or bringing them food and water? How had he never guessed what she was doing? And if she had access to the safe house—knew the contacts for the Underground—why had she never escaped? He realized with regret that he would probably never know the answer.

Kitster was still talking. "Theec took over after he came." Vader looked up sharply. Theec too had known how to escape and had not. Maybe he could shed some light on his mother's reasoning? But later. Not now. "I'm afraid we rather presumed on your generosity and kept up the use of the safe room after you bought the shop. I know it wasn't the same as going behind a master's back. It was an abuse of your kindness, really, but this is one of the best locations for hiding people before they get on the transports."

Vader stalked across the shop, then retraced his steps, perturbation lending his stride an atypical jerkiness. How had he missed the presence of an ever-changing roster of escaping slaves hiding in his shop? Their emotions ought to have shouted to him.

Then again—their misery and fear would simply have melted into the general wretchedness that filled Mos Espa. And it wasn't as if he were using the Force much at the moment, except for a habitual passive awareness of his surroundings.

Kitster seemed uncharacteristically abashed. Vader waved a negligent hand. "It is no matter. You may continue. And there is no need to hide your comings and goings with them, Theec. Feel free to let them out for exercise, so long as they do not steal anything."

"Ahem. There is actually a bit more you could do," Kitster said. Vader spread his hands and inclined his head mockingly. "If you could employ them in your shop while they wait for a spot on a transport…"

Vader's hands fell to his sides. He stared a Kit. _"Employ_ them? Exactly how many are we talking about?"

"No more than three at a time. I will provide you with credentials that will indicate you employ three people in addition to Theec. They will have false names. The files will be set up so that you can accommodate the various species at any time. If inspectors come through, the documents will prove that they are legally employed and clearly not runaway slaves."

Vader rather wanted to roll his eyes as that young lady from the moisture farm was in the habit of doing. This would involve him with people again. A step he did not want to take. On the other hand, his mother— _his mother!_ —had worked on this project too. She would want him to do this. _Someday I will come back and free the slaves_ , his inner voice whispered.

Fine. He would do it. But nothing further. Jamming his thumbs in his belt, he said, "Very well. Bring me the files, and I shall provide cover for your activities." He turned to Theec. "Is anyone in the safe room right now?"

"Yes—a mother and her daughter. Twi'leks."

Vader winced. Not much question what they were escaping. "You might as well bring them out for the evening. They will have to remain in the safe room during the day until I have those permits."

"I hope to have them to you by tomorrow," Kitster said.

"Have their trackers been deactivated?" Vader asked.

"Yes," Theec said. "I've been—um—using my old tracker. I—ah—"

Vader waved his hand again. "Yes, of course. That is what you should use it for." He looked back to Kit in resignation. "Is there anything else?"

Kitster grinned. "Not tonight. I knew you would help, once we laid it out for you."

"You are presumptuous, Banai. Do not assume I shall always be so obliging." Even to himself, the rebuke sounded perfunctory.

* * *

True to his word, Kitster brought the forged employment permits late the next afternoon. "You can select the appropriate files, depending on the species and sex of the particular individuals you employ," Kitster said.

Vader shot him a wry glance but did not object to this characterization of the situation. He placed the datapad in a drawer behind the counter, expecting Kitster to leave now that his objective was accomplished, but Banai leaned against the counter and settled in to chat. Vader's monosyllabic answers did not deter him. At last he said casually, "It's about closing time."

"Yes. Don't you have a shop to tend, too?" Vader's tone was sharp with irritation.

Kitster shrugged. "Yes. Lalla is minding it."

"Lalla?"

"My wife. She and Noru, our oldest, will close up before dinner. Speaking of which—come join us. Theec frequently eats with us, and we would be happy to share our water with you as well."

"Ah…I—"

As Vader fumbled for a reply, Theec entered from the courtyard and added, "You should come. Lalla is an excellent cook."

"She is. The food will be simple, but plenty of it. Theec, why don't you close up the counter. I'll get the shutters."

Before Vader quite knew what had happened, they were walking down the dusty street together. His companions ignored his disjointed protests as they discussed local gossip and news. A few streets from Vader's shop, Kitster led them into an unremarkable house. It was built in typical Tatooine style—thick adobe to keep out the heat of the twin suns, a domed roof, and arched doors and windows. The interior was cool and dim. Bright hangings of geometric designs covered the walls. The floor was some smooth surface—duracrete perhaps—and the residents had made a determined effort to keep the sand out, though it was clearly a daily battle. Kitster led them through another doorway into a large, bright kitchen with a table in the center. The rich aroma of beans and broth filled the room.

"Lalla, I'm home. And look who came with me."

A woman of about Kitster's height turned from the countertop where she was mixing something in a bowl. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and tied back from her face, which would have been pretty in an ordinary sort of way, had it not been for the ridged, discolored scar that ran from her left temple to her jaw and stood out starkly against her olive skin. She smiled and the skin pulled against the scar. Vader involuntarily winced with sympathy, though she gave no sign of pain with the gesture. "Theec. Welcome. And this is…"

"Kaneis Kraytrider," Kitster said. "I didn't give him much of a choice about dinner."

Her expression grew warmer yet. "I'm glad to meet you, Kraytrider. I've heard a lot about you."

"You have?" Vader was perplexed. His interactions with Kitster had been superficial for the most part. What was there to tell?

"The whole town is speculating about you. Well, maybe not the whole town, but there's a lot of curiosity about you. I'm glad to meet you for myself."

Vader frowned. "Speculating? Can't they mind their own business?"

"Of course not. Your business is so much more interesting. Especially since there's so little accurate information about you." Her eyes twinkled. "You're everything from a retired bounty hunter to a wealthy industrialist getting away from it all. Or maybe a reclusive genius mechanic on the run from the Empire's war machine. Of course, what would draw any of those people to Mos Espa of all places is an irrelevant question." She resumed mixing the dish she had abandoned at their entrance.

"I'm the subject of common gossip," Vader said blankly.

"Well, yes. Surely you expected it. You're a mystery. And this is a very boring town most of the year. Speculating on your history is far more interesting than the weather. And a much safer topic than the Empire, even all the way out here. You never know who might report back." She brushed her husband's shoulder with her hand as she passed on her way to the stove. "You remember all those inquiries about your friend, Kit."

"Ani? Yeah. It was strange. He's been gone over thirty years and probably died when the Empire killed the Jedi. So why were Imperial agents asking about him?" Kit held a large platter for Lalla as she dished out the contents of the pot.

Vader's mouth was drier than the aftermath of a sandstorm. "Inquiries? Who?"

"A couple of humans. They tried to look like spacers but their accents and clothes were all wrong," Kit said.

"And they were asking about your friend? The one you mentioned?"

"Yeah. Anakin Skywalker." Kit carried the platter to the table. "I don't know if you ever heard of him. He was in the news a lot back in the Clone Wars. Anyway, they wanted to know about anyone named Skywalker who still lived here." Kit shrugged. "Like I said, Ani left thirty years ago. I don't think he ever came back. Miss Shmi married a moisture farmer who lived somewhere out in the desert, and as far as I know, she never came back either. My mom heard a rumor that she died. Or maybe was killed. We never really got the facts straight about that. It was too bad; she was like another mom to me."

Vader clenched his fists and concentrated on breathing. He could not think about his mother's death. Desperately, he sought another topic to focus on. The agents. Palpatine. So he had searched for Vader on Tatooine after all. "When—" He paused to steady his voice. "When did you say those agents were here?"

Kitster and Lalla exchanged thoughtful glances. "About—six or seven months ago? It was before last Boonta Eve."

Vader stifled a sigh of relief. So far he should be safe. All this interest in his history was a problem, though. If Palpatine sent agents again, they might put together rumors about a man with a mysterious past and the Emperor's missing servant.

"I'm not a retired bounty hunter. Or a rich business owner," he said.

"Or on the run from the Empire?" Kit winked and grinned. Vader tried to smile in return, but feared the effort was sickly. "That's all right. Everyone knows who you are."

"They do?" A feeling he had not experienced since the war jolted through him. It was a moment before he identified it as panic.

"But don't worry," said Lalla, checking another pot on the stove. "We won't tell. We understand. None of us who really know would ever betray you."

Vader didn't know what to say. He tried to speak through stiff lips anyway but couldn't make a sound.

Kit's face grew sober. "Of course we know you're a fugitive slave. Your name's pretty obvious. And your escape must have really been something if you felt you deserved to use Kraytrider." He grinned at his wife. "I keep telling Lalla she should take it." Lalla shook her head reprovingly. Clearly this was an old disagreement.

"I'm happy with Banai." She moved a final serving dish to the table.

"You're—an escaped slave?" Vader asked.

"It's quite the story," Kit answered with pride, placing a stack of plates on the table. "Though she's very modest and usually makes little of it."

"Kit, would you tell the kids dinner is ready? Please, pull up a stool," she said to Theec and Vader. She began dishing out generous helpings of beans and mushrooms over semet, the hardy grain that formed the staple of Tatooine natives' diet. After a moment of helter-skelter confusion, everyone was seated around the table. "I don't want to draw any more attention to the network," Lalla continued. "Freedom is enough reward for me; I don't need all the notoriety that would come with taking the name Kraytrider." She smiled at Vader to show she intended no insult to him.

"I've heard your story, but Kraytrider hasn't. Will you tell us?" Theec asked curiously.

"Of course. When I was a young teen, I was sold to a merchant's family in Mos Elray. I was supposed to be a combination playmate and nanny for their children. And—well, they were not kind people." Lalla pressed her lips together and looked at her children. "If the children misbehaved, I was disciplined. I tried to escape a couple of times, so my mistress confined me to the house. I was probably about seventeen when I decided I couldn't bear it any more. My master had given me this," she pointed to her scar, "after my second escape attempt. He said he would mark me so that I would be easy to find, even if I did manage to run away. It became infected and scarred heavily."

Kitster brushed it tenderly. "It's a badge of honor, my darling."

She smiled. "It doesn't trouble me. Anyway, I knew my mistress kept my tracker in her bedroom. One day when she went out, I searched her room and found it. A kind grandmother in the slave quarters hid me, and as soon as it was dark, the old woman gave me more food and water than she could spare and told me to shelter in the ruins of a moisture farm one night's journey west. She would get word to the Underground to meet me there. My water had nearly run out when someone finally arrived to take me to the next station. I traveled like that for several weeks, but then I was almost discovered by a bounty hunter. I didn't dare risk capture, so I walked for three nights across the Jundland Wastes to Mos Espa. I sheltered in caves and found springs in small rock formations."

Her expression was far away. "It was so silent. I felt so alone. I wished I could meet a krayt, like in the stories, but the nearest I came was hearing a trumpet call one night right after sunset." She gave an embarrassed smile. "I don't even know if it was a krayt. When I reached here, the network provided identity papers and shelter. Eventually, I found a job, while secretly I worked with the network at night. That's how Kit and I met." She smiled at her husband. "We couldn't get married until he had freed himself, but it was worth the wait. Now I want the children to know my story. Partly so they know where they came from, but also…well, in case anything ever happens. I want them to know there are people to help, even when they have nothing."

Kit took her hand. "Every time you tell your story, I wish I had not so tamely purchased my freedom."

"But if you had run away, we might never have met." She squeezed his hand tenderly. "At the least, we would have had to flee Mos Espa and change our names. But this way, we can continue to work with the network. I think what matters is that you're free, however it happened." She released his hand and picked up her spoon again.

Vader's heart ached as he watched their easy manner together. He had once hoped to share such companionship with Padmé. Lost in thought, he didn't hear the youngest Banai ask a question until it was repeated.

"Mr. Kraytrider! Tell me your story. Please," he added as an afterthought with a look at his mother.

Vader was puzzled. "What story?"

"How you got the name. Dad says when somebody earns the name Kraytrider, they always have a story to tell. You know—how they escaped their cruel master across the desert and met the Great Mother," he said with relish. "The Three Questions she asked them. What boon she granted."

Vader recoiled. "No. I don't have a story to tell. I've never met a krayt."

"But your name is Kraytrider. So even if you didn't meet a krayt when you escaped, you must have a story to tell. Like Mom. Did you almost run out of water like she did?"

"No. I didn't escape across the desert. My—um—master lived—someplace else."

"Then how did you escape?"

"I—um—flew away."

The boy's eyes grew round. "Flew? You mean in a ship? A space ship?"

"Chazzer," said Lalla, "he already said he doesn't want to talk about it."

"But he's supposed to, Mom." Chazzer's expression was earnest and pleading. "His name is Kraytrider; that means he should tell his story. He has lots of scars, so his master must have been very mean. And Dad says anybody who escapes their master is really brave. I think it's wizard that he escaped in a space ship!"

Lalla looked at Vader apologetically before turning back to her son. "Not everybody wants to tell their story, even if their name is Kraytrider. Mr. Kraytrider is our guest and we need to respect his wishes." She said to Vader, "I'm sorry. Sometimes it seems I have four children, not three, and Kitster is the biggest one of them all. He's filled their heads with romantic tales, and I think he half believes them himself."

Her husband grinned unrepentantly. "You never know. Just because we've never met anyone who's ever talked with a krayt doesn't mean it couldn't happen…"

Chazzer ignored this exchange, attention still riveted on Vader. "You mean you really didn't meet a krayt?"

"No. I've never so much as seen one." Vader shifted uneasily under the weight of the boy's disappointment.

"Someday I'm going to meet one," he declared with all the assurance of his six years. "And she'll ask me her Three Questions and I'll tell the truth and then she'll give me a boon." He sighed. "I wish I could be a slave so I could become a real Kraytrider."

"Chazzer!" his mother said. "That's a wicked wish."

"It's all right, Lalla," said Kit as he placed a soothing hand on her arm, "he doesn't know what he's saying." He turned to his son. "But your mother is right. No one should wish to be a slave. We want to make it so there are no more Kraytriders. No more slaves who need the Great Mother's help to run away across the desert. It may be a long time before that happens, but we'll keep working toward it. That's why it's important to tell our stories," he shot an apologetic glance across the table at Vader, "but not everyone is ready to tell their story right away. You have to respect their choice."

Vader thought this was a clear example of the sand calling the desert dry, given Kitster's repeated questions in the same vein.

Chazzer looked mulish. "It's not fair that only escaping slaves get to meet a krayt. I want to meet one and have an adventure."

Kit ruffled his hair. "Who says only escaping slaves get to meet krayts? You never know. It could still happen."

"And there are lots of adventures in the world that don't require you become a slave," Lalla put in. "Now, since you're finished with your dinner, it's time to do your math."

"But, Mom, I don't want to. It's so boring."

She smiled patiently at her son. "I think you mean you don't like it. But what have I told you about school?"

The boy sighed dramatically. "It's the gateway to a better life and I should be grateful to be educated, not like you, who didn't even learn to read until you came to Mos Espa," he parroted.

"That's right. Run along now. Tem will help you if you get stuck."

He left the table with dragging footsteps and several backwards glances. His brother grimaced but followed him from the room.

Vader said, "I…ah…Thank you for dinner. I think I should leave now."

"Nonsense. Or we'll think we've offended you," said Kitster heartily. "Have some jawa juice and stay awhile. Theec always does."

Vader considered Kit's earnest expression and his wife's determined one and bowed to the inevitable. He settled back on the stool.


	7. Small Sands

Kit and Lalla poured generous portions of jawa juice for their guests and encouraged them to settle in for a lengthy visit, so Vader was relieved when Theec made his farewells after drinking one glass. They walked back to the shop together, Vader studying Theec out of the corner of his eye as they strode through the dusk.

"I'm curious about something," he said at last. Theec's ears and antenna rotated toward him. "You knew how to escape. You knew the head of the underground. Yet you did not run away. Why?"

Theec glanced up briefly, then stared straight ahead. "Watto was not a terrible master. Before Watto, I was owned by one of Jabba’s servants. He beat me regularly and fed me as little as possible. I was kept in the lower levels of Jabba’s palace. It was hot and foul and overcrowded. This was so much better. At first it almost felt like freedom—a little bit, anyway. And then Banai asked if I would help him. I knew that others were in far more desperate situations than I was. And if it became unendurable—well, I knew how to get help." Theec's tone was bone dry, but Vader was certain the words were wry.

"I see," said Vader. "I suppose most people would call that noble. Do you think there are others who do the same?"

"It is not noble. I am doing the good in front of me. Nearly eight hundred beings are free because I stayed. If I had escaped, could I have done more?" Theec gazed earnestly at Vader. After a moment he looked away again. "Sometimes the only choice we are given is whether we will do the small good that we can see."

"And are there others who think as you do?"

"I believe some do. Kitster has told me of the woman who worked here before I came. Shmi Skywalker. She did not attempt to escape, even after her son was freed. He thinks it’s because she believed she was doing good here. He heard that she continued her efforts after her husband freed her. So yes. I do think there are some."

Vader could not bear to continue the conversation. The thought that his mother had endured slavery because she believed her calling was to help others pierced his heart.

For weeks after that conversation, Theec's words rang in his ears. _I am doing the good in front of me._ Had he ever done the good in front of him, simply because it needed to be done? He had always wanted power, status, recognition. As a Jedi, he had supposedly served the good of the galaxy and the Republic. But it was always the good he was told to do. Or what he thought was best for the people he loved. As a Sith, he had never cared how his actions affected others. Only whether they advanced his goals. At best he had been selfish. At worst…

His heart clenched. Although he had long forsaken considering issues through the lens of good and evil, he knew his mother—and Kit and Theec too, for that matter—would have judged them to be pure evil. Probably the last time he had chosen to do something good simply to benefit someone else was when he had raced his pod to get Padmé the hyperdrive she needed.

He found himself setting aside certain parts as they came into the shop. Telling himself that he was certain they would be useful for something, he refused to admit what that something would be. At last one night he opened the bin and began to build a small tool. He worked on it only in the evenings, determined not to squander his work time on a personal project. It took him several weeks to complete the tool to his satisfaction.

The next time Kitster dropped in for one of his supposedly casual visits, Vader pressed the small wand into his hand.

"What's this?" Kitster asked.

"A universal scanner."

 _"Universal?"_ Kit glanced around furtively and lowered his voice. "No one has managed a universal scanner. Our best bet is to keep multiple models on hand and use trial and error until we find one that works. And sometimes we don't." He pressed his lips together tightly.

"I could be wrong. Feel free to tell me if I am.” Vader resumed work on a vaporator condenser. “But I believe it will find and deactivate any manufacturer's chip. Isn't it difficult to reprogram the transmitters to work on more than one chip?"

"Yes. It took Theec several weeks to unlock his."

Vader glanced at Theec, who was on the other side of the workbench. "You succeeded? I'm impressed." He turned back to Kitster. "Well, give it a try. Or not. I don't really care." He exchanged his hydrospanner for a miniature welder and slipped his goggles over his face.

"Well—thank you,” Kitster said in a neutral tone over the hissing of the welder. “I'll let you know if it works."

* * *

The girl, whose name Vader still did not know, strode into the shop about a week after he had given Kitster the scanner. She appeared regularly in the middle of every month, and her orders were relatively modest. In the main she was polite, although she seemed to think making conversation was an essential part of shopping. Considering that she probably saw no one but her uncle for most of the month, however, Vader determined that perhaps a certain loquaciousness should be excused during her rare excursions.

When she had completed her latest order, she hovered indecisively beside the counter.

"Do you need something else?" Vader inquired.

She gnawed at her lip for a moment before she said, "I have a personal project. My uncle doesn't know about it, and it's not part of our regular budget. I'll have to pay for it with some money I've saved up. I don't know if I'll have enough, and I hate to waste your time…" She stopped.

When she did not resume, Vader prompted her. "What project?"

"I have an astromech. I discovered recently that he has booster jets, but they don't work anymore. I want to fix them."

"What parts do you need?"

"I don't know exactly. Definitely two fuel cells. And the ignition coils are corroded. I tried to clean them off, but I couldn't get it all. Do I need a different solvent? Or will he need new coils?"

"Hmmm. Probably new coils. You don't really want to mess around when you're dealing with flammable materials." Vader gave her a stern look. "I don't need to remind you to be careful working with these jets, do I? Observe all the proper precautions, and use safety equipment."

"I know," she said earnestly. "I don't want to be burned. It's only—I think he would really like to have them back again, and maybe he could help with some of the repairs to the solar arrays if he could get in the air."

Vader almost smiled at her enthusiasm. "I understand. Let's get you the parts. How much money do you have?"

Her mouth twisted with embarrassment. "Only a half trugut. My uncle can't give me much of an allowance. It costs so much just to live."

"That's all right. Let's say—four wupiupi for the lot."

"But that's a lot less than they're worth. The fuel canisters alone should be five wupiupi."

Vader looked at her severely over the rim of his glasses. "Young lady, you are violating the rules of haggling. After I quote you a price, you are _not_ supposed to tell me all the reasons I should be asking more. Do you want these parts or not?"

"Yes, I want them. But I don't want to take advantage of you."

He pulled his glasses off. "The day a child like you can pull the bantha wool over my eyes is the day Jabba the Hutt hands out alms in Mos Eisley market."

The girl laughed. "But I'm not a child."

Vader raised his hairless brows. "Pardon me. From my vantage point you seem very young. But I did not mean to offend you. Take the parts and let me know if you succeed in repairing your droid."

Her smile was a little abashed. "Well, thank you. My uncle wants us to pay the fair rate. He says life is hard enough for folks here without us trying to cheat them of what they're owed. You've been very generous."

"Generous has nothing to do with it. How many astromechs do you think come into this shop?"

She laughed once more and wished him farewell. His spirits felt unaccountably light after their exchange.

Not quite a week later, Kitster wandered into the shop again. He was making a herculean effort not to bounce in excitement. As soon as the two customers Vader was serving were gone, Kit grasped his hand. "It works. I don't know how you did it. Any manufacturer—no matter how old—it works. This changes—oh, everything. We don't have to carry half a dozen scanners with us. And it doesn't take long to locate the chips. I'm—I'm—I don't know what to say. Ani would have been so happy...."

"Ani? Your friend?" Vader did his best to keep his tone flat.

"Yes. He wanted to build a scanner like this, but he couldn't get it to work."

"You said he was merely a child? I doubt any child could design something this complex."

"Oh, I don't know. Ani was quite gifted with mechanical things. He would have been so excited to see this....Thank you. I just can't express..." Kitster drifted off into incoherence.

"I'm pleased it works. It was—a challenge. I wanted to see if it could be done."

"You succeeded. It's a lot to ask but—could you make any more? I realize it's probably time-consuming. And expensive. I would pay you for them."

Vader said, "I can teach Theec how. He can make them. If I have time I may make a few more as well. But I make no promises."

Kit beamed. "That's wonderful. I'll let you get back to work now, but—thank you so much!"

* * *

Kitster's forged permits came in handy three days later. This was the first inspection since Vader had purchased the shop. As soon as the inspection team turned onto the street, Theec pulled out the datapad with the permits. They were hosting two "employees" that week, another Rodian and a human. Theec adjusted the paperwork so that it properly reflected the number of employees in the shop.

When the team arrived—a pair of noncoms from the local garrison—Vader was absorbed in a repair, while Theec worked on the books. The two escaping slaves were conducting a superfluous inventory in the courtyard. The sergeant, a portly, slovenly fellow, demanded their permits. He studied the paperwork, then passed a dismissive glance over Vader, his eyes lingering on the scars before flicking away in distaste. The self-important little man made a show of checking behind the counter and under Vader's work bench. He insisted on viewing Vader's living quarters and demanded to know what the scanner was.

Vader drawled in Huttese, "A device for locating and deactivating the control chips in slaves."

“None of that alien garbage, trash. Speak up in Standard like a proper human, or I’ll haul you in to the garrison.” His lip curled in distaste as he surveyed Vader's scars again.

“I said, it is an innovative, cutting-edge, dual-function technology designed for the localization of and communication with single-wave-frequency transmission devices employed by local businesses to track essential commercial assets,” Vader repeated in Standard with his most uneducated, Outer Rim accent.

Behind the soldiers’ backs, Theec lifted his head in surprised delight, choking back a gleeful guffaw.

As Vader expected, the sergeant was so caught up in his own importance that he did not bother parsing out the jargon in the description. Vader had had to review enough reports filled with overblown verbosity to know how the game was played. He distracted himself from his annoyance by picturing the little gamecock’s ignominious and brief career should he ever have found himself serving aboard any vessel Vader had commanded.

After half an hour of thoroughly useless inquiries and demands, the pair left, having disarranged the shop and confiscated one of the scanners. Vader had bent his policy on using the Force and had disconnected a wire deep within it before they departed. Unless the inspector was a mechanical genius, it was highly unlikely he would discover the sabotage.


	8. Who Would Be Free

Kitster took to making his visits to the shop near closing time, giving him an opportunity to linger to speak with Vader or Theec and to check on the fugitives they were sheltering. Vader eventually gave in to this regular invasion and purchased folding stools for the three of them. Banai commonly concluded his visits with an invitation to dinner. At first, Vader tried to refuse, but both men ignored his protests and towed him along in their wake. For reasons he did not want to examine too closely, Vader was reluctant to make more than a mild effort at resistance, so he found himself taking his place in the Banais' kitchen at least once a week. Lalla's cooking was delicious, and though he refused to acknowledge it to himself, he enjoyed the company too.

One evening Kitster brought a bottle of Corellian whiskey instead of a dinner invitation, and the three lingered around the counter in the shop. He confided that Lalla was on a "trip" with the network. That particular week Vader had no extra employees, and they spoke freely. After several shots and some desultory discussion about the network's efforts, Kitster said in a wistful tone, pronunciation slightly fuzzy, "Sometimes I get so frustrated with our slow progress, I fantasize about freeing the whole planet."

Vader stared at him. "What makes you think you could do that?"

"Oh, I don't. It's just—look, I've been doing this for over a decade. Lalla's been at it longer. And we've freed fewer than a thousand slaves. That's a fistful of sand compared to all the slaves on Tatooine. Sometimes I daydream about what it would be like if they were all free…No more masters. No more freedom trail. No more secrets."

"What do you think would be required?" Theec said, words even more slurred than Kit's.

"Oh, I don’t even know. Jabba keeps bringing in more captives faster than we can free them. Probably we'd have to take out the Hutts. And who could do that?"

"Yes," Theec's nod was grave, "just eliminating Jabba would be nearly impossible. And then some other Hutt would take over his syndicate."

They were all quiet for a time, contemplating a Tatooine without Hutts. Eventually, Kitster added, "And I've got no idea what the Empire would do. They've never taken much interest in Tatooine—or the Republic before them—but we might just make the whole situation worse."

"Almost certainly," said Vader, straightening slightly. His words were also somewhat slurred. "Slavery is legal in the Empire, although individual planets are permitted to outlaw it. But since there's no government, who could do that? The Empire would move in to fill the power vacuum if the Hutts didn't beat them to it. The Emperor won't go toe to toe with the Hutts over Tatooine—not enough here to make it worthwhile—but if he could increase his control without having to fight the Hutts? Definitely."

Kit stared at him. "How do you know that?"

Vader shrugged. "Elementary political theory."

"Right." Kitster nodded owlishly. "Well, I didn't know it. But it certainly eliminates that idea. I think overall I prefer the dust demon I know." He set down his glass with a thunk and stood. "I'll get home now. Lalla will scold if I drink any more."

Theec left with him. Pensively, Vader locked the door behind them and turned out the light over the counter. He sank into the chair in his quarters and picked up a half-completed scanner. As he worked, the conversation replayed in his head.

He shook his head ruefully. What a pipe dream. It was all well and good for a pair of slave boys to dream of freeing the slaves. But not even the Jedi Order, with all its resources, had felt equal to the task. What could a provincial shopkeeper and a newly-freed slave hope to accomplish? Idly, he considered the question as he absentmindedly connected wires and tightened screws.

It would have to be done by stealth. With the trackers in place, emancipation by decree would be nothing more than window dressing—the Empire certainly would never intervene. Neither through legislation nor enforcement. And it would be less than useless to demand the slaveholders disable the trackers. Not without an outsized police force. Which no one on Tatooine possessed.

Vader yawned, glanced at the chrono, then put down his work. Later, he lay in bed while disjointed thoughts chased round and round. Could a planet's worth of slaves be freed by stealth? The universal scanner could disable the chips, but almost certainly agents of the underground would have to visit each slave in person. That alone would be a monumental undertaking. He drifted off to sleep calculating how many agents would hypothetically be required to do it.

The next morning he awoke still mulling over the questions. They dogged his steps as he exercised, ate, and straightened his apartment. Several times he resolved to abandon the matter, but like a ball bearing in a groove, his thoughts continuously returned to it. He reminded himself it was merely an intriguing mental experiment.

The particular difficulty he kept stumbling over was how to prevent the Empire from rushing in to fill the power vacuum. Distributing the scanners would be a challenge, but with enough time he and Theec could construct the necessary number. Jabba's assassination he had already fantasized about in multiple loving variations over the past months. But a system that could not defend itself would swiftly find the Empire had snatched up its territory. Unless…

In his former life, he and Palpatine had engaged in many games through the years. One had centered on Vader finding ways to make his small rebellions and whims appear perfectly legal. Even necessitated by the constitution. If he recalled correctly, there was an article that might be exactly the loophole he required.

He visited a local cantina that had public access holoterminals and was gratified to find his memory was accurate. If certain conditions were met, the Imperial constitution guaranteed that the galactic government would not interfere in the internal affairs of a sovereign system. Of course, Palpatine, while publicly maintaining the inviolability of the Imperial constitution in galactic affairs, regularly disregarded both it and system sovereignty when it suited him.

But…

If this were handled just right…

It might make the public relations cost so high, Palpatine wouldn’t find the effort worthwhile.

He intended to leave the matter there. He had established that the endeavor could be successful, but only under conditions so precise that the margin of error would be functionally nonexistent. Thirty years as a warrior had taught him that no plan so precarious had much hope of success.

Nevertheless, as the days passed, the possibilities continued to niggle at the edge of his awareness. He caught himself mulling over the guarantee of rights as he welded a speeder's tailpipe and reviewing legislative procedures in the silence between turning out the lights and falling asleep. One evening he set down the scanner he was assembling and grabbed a datapad, writing rapid notes for over an hour. Over the following days, he kept the datapad near and jotted thoughts down at odd intervals. Long-forgotten classes on galactic political theory and conflict resolution rose in his memory. Key phrases made their way into the increasingly detailed notes.

He made several visits to the dingy holo café, surreptitiously consulting contraband copies of the Galactic Republic's constitution, as well as Naboo's Charter and Alderaan's Declaration on Sapient Rights. He was meticulous about covering his tracks, as he did not wish to draw any unwanted attention. He told himself that there was really no need to take the risk at all. He should cease his efforts before someone grew suspicious. This was merely an intellectual exercise anyway.

But he could not break free from the fascination it held for him.

It was in the wee hours one night, when he had stayed up long past his usual bedtime, that he finally admitted to himself what he was doing. He wanted to free the slaves. Perhaps it was not a noble endeavor. He did not feel particularly concerned about the slaves as individuals. But he was deeply interested in discovering whether he could pull off a revolution right under Palpatine's nose.

It would be the first enterprise he had ever attempted solely on his own. As Darth Vader, he had operated ultimately under Sidious' command, though the Emperor had given him wide latitude to accomplish his missions. As a Jedi, he had almost always worked with Kenobi, even after he earned his Knighthood. And he would have consulted Padmé in any case for an assignment that involved this degree of politics. In fact, he really wouldn't mind consulting her now. He would even be glad for Kenobi's input, though it would have required overlooking a great deal of lava under the bridge. But Kenobi was probably dead and Padmé definitely was.

On the other hand, that left him the opportunity to see what he could do all on his own.

At last he visited Kitster's shop, a little surprised that for once the man was actually minding his business.

"Kraytrider," Banai said, his smile etching lines around his eyes. "This is a surprise."

"I suppose," Vader answered, dropping a datapad on the counter in front of Kit.

"What's this?"

"Something I wrote. I thought you might like to see it."

With an inquiring expression, Kit opened the datapad. "This is in Standard."

"Yes."

"I'll admit I don't read Standard very well."

"The other file is the Huttese. But the Empire will require that the official document be in Standard." Vader seated himself on a convenient stool.

Kitster keyed open the Huttese text and read in silence for several minutes. He looked up, his face blank. "This is a constitution," he said.

"Articles of government, but yes."

"Why are you bringing me a constitution?"

"You want to free the slaves, you need a government. It's the only way to both outlaw slavery, and also keep the Empire out of Tatooine."

A furrow appeared between Kitster's brows. "How would it do that?"

"The Imperial constitution guarantees systems the right to self-governance in accordance with their own customs, so long as certain conditions are met. This serves as a legal guarantee that Tatooine is not attempting to spread rebellion by freeing its slaves and that it will continue to pay Imperial taxes. As long as you follow through, the Empire will leave Tatooine alone. It isn't worth the trouble and the political consequences for the Emperor to override that section of the galactic constitution."

"How would we meet the taxes? Even if we—" Kitster lowered his voice to a whisper, though the shop was empty "—assassinated Jabba, we wouldn't have any money."

"I see you didn’t read that far. This document confiscates Jabba's assets in the wake of his death."

"What death? Last time I checked, Jabba was alive and flapping his tail."

"Assassinate him, obviously."

Banai set the datapad on the counter with care. "…I wouldn't have any idea how to do that. I run a network of former slaves. We have no resources. No weapons."

"I might know a few people who could help. I assure you, killing Jabba is the least of our concerns."

Banai searched his face. "You're serious. This really is—" he lowered his voice again and shot a wary glance at the door "—a revolution."

"If you're willing," said Vader. "Come to my shop tonight after dinner, and I'll tell you the rest."


	9. Practice to Deceive

Over the following weeks, Vader’s small rebellion made meticulous plans. They settled on Boonta Eve for the assassination. Jabba would be a somewhat easier target when he traveled to Mos Espa for the race, and the day was far enough away to give them time to put the other pieces in place. Furthermore, Kitster was very taken with the symbolism of freeing the slaves on the day they traditionally renewed their vows of obedience to their masters.

In the meantime, Vader deputized Theec, Kitster, and Lalla to lay the groundwork in the cells, and the four of them spent hours debating who should be selected for the provisional council. Everyone quickly agreed upon Theec as the representative of the soon-to-be-freed slaves. Vader proposed Kit as president, and Lalla and Theec enthusiastically ratified the nomination. Kit demurred at first, pointing out that Lalla was actually the head of the underground, but she declined.

“I’m pretty good at running the practical stuff, but I’m not going to do very well at all the other things. My education won't hold up and my Standard is just barely adequate. It’s why Kit does all the off-world travel—he’s fluent in Standard.” She directed the last sentence at Vader. She turned to her husband. “And you’re good with people. They like you and trust you easily.” When Kit started to protest, she leaned over to kiss him briefly. “And, anyway, I’ve got the children to manage and a house to run. I wouldn’t enjoy the job and you will. That’s plenty of reasons for you to take it.”

Vader could tell Kitster was still reluctant, but he made no more objections. If they debated the matter in private, Vader never knew. To fill the remaining seats on the council, they solicited evaluations of prominent settlers, merchants, and neighborhood leaders. Quietly, they investigated the backgrounds of potential candidates, trying to gauge who would serve with virtue and honor.

One evening after an especially difficult session with only Vader and Banai in attendance, Kitster set down his datapad with a sigh. "Why are you so set on having plans in place for a government before we free the slaves? Can't this wait until after we've taken out Jabba?"

"No, it cannot," Vader replied. "I told you, the Empire will rush in to fill any vacuum of power. But beyond that…" he paused before continuing, "…there has never been a bottom-up revolution which did not rapidly result in corruption, tyranny, and oppression for the very people it was supposed to free. I do not intend to throw down the Hutts only to see something worse take their place."

Kitster nodded in resignation. "And the Imps? I'm no expert on political theory like you are—"

Vader snorted.

"—but if we allow them to keep a toehold here, doesn't that just invite _them_ to take over?"

Vader compressed his lips, then removed his glasses so he could rub the bridge of his nose. "Yes. But it is a risk we must take."

Kitster frowned. "I don't understand. Shouldn't we get rid of the garrisons at the same time we declare independence?"

"We don't have a police force," Vader answered. "Or an army."

"Well, no—but I don't see what that has to do with keeping the garrisons here. They're almost as bad as the Hutts for extortion and corruption."

"They are. But as much chaos as there is here, at least it is controlled chaos. Think what will happen once Jabba is dead if the garrison is gone too. Every two-credit criminal will run amok."

"Oh," Kit said in a small voice. "You think the Imps will act as a police force?"

"I think Semchan doesn't want to see his head rolling on the Senate floor. I didn't have to do much digging to confirm he's deep in Jabba's pocket. The Emperor makes a great show of his anti-corruption stance, and a threat to report Semchan's shenanigans to Imperial Center should keep him in line. He won't want any close scrutiny of how he has discharged his duties, so he will have a vested interest in keeping unrest to a minimum in order not to attract an audit."

"I see." Kit stared at his datapad for a while. Then, looking back at Vader, he asked, "Will we be ready in time?"

"Do you mean by Boonta Eve? I think so. It's two months away, and I have nearly completed the final draft of the provisional articles. As soon as we finish this list," he indicated the datapad of names between them, "we'll hold a meeting to ratify them. Once that's in place, we’ll be ready to move against Jabba any time. We could possibly stage it earlier, but I think we had best stick to the plan we already have. By the way, I've been meaning to tell you—I'll be sending a message to some people I think might be interested in helping us. They have special skills that should be of use."

Kitster nodded. "When will you know if they're willing?"

"In a couple of weeks, I expect."

"All right. I don't think we'll make any more progress on that list tonight, though. I'll check out those questions we had and report back. Good night."

As he prepared to stand, Vader put his hand on the other man’s arm. "Before you leave, Banai, I do have one more item I want to mention." He gathered his thoughts. "I know the word has started to circulate that I'm running this conspiracy. I can't be involved. I want you to take over as the leader."

Kitster jerked back. "What? I can't do that. I don't know half the stuff you say we need to do. You're the brains behind this operation, not me."

Vader shook his head. "I don't mean that I will stop doing what I'm doing. It's only that I don't want to be the face of our—our rebellion. I want you to do that. You can call yourself a figurehead, if that makes you feel better."

"Why don't you want to be known?" Kitster asked with narrowed eyes.

Vader dropped his gaze to the counter. "There is a being who is undoubtedly very angry with me. I do not wish to be found, and I am concerned that if I am the public face of the revolution—or even known as a part of it—then he will locate me."

Kitster paused for Vader to say more. When he remained silent, Kitster said, "I assume this is your slave master—the one you escaped when you gained your name." Vader merely looked at him without responding. "Okay. If you don't want to tell me, that's your business. Is that all?"

Vader stood and nodded soberly. "Yes. And thank you, Kit."

* * *

Once he was alone, Vader opened a datapad to review a document. Satisfied with the wording, he closed it and went to bed.

The next day he left Theec in charge of the shop, rented a speeder, and flew to Mos Eisley, where he accessed a public terminal. Locating a message board used by the surviving clones, he copied the note on his datapad.

NEEDED for operation in Outer Rim to dismantle smuggling organization: 4 to 6 brothers with the following skills: EXPLOSIVES, SNIPING, COMMS, INTEL, INFILTRATION. Job is 4-6 weeks in duration. Base pay 10,000 credits each plus bonuses for special skills. Comms silence essential. For coordinates and exact dates, contact 11kaneis38.6672656564736c617665.tu.temp.

Satisfied that the first step in preparing for the assassination was complete and that no one was likely decode the hexadecimal text embedded in the temporary address, he erased the record of his activity and returned to Mos Espa. He checked the account daily. The first response, from a brother using the handle BetterThanADroid, came four days after the posting. By the following week, he had five volunteers.

* * *

Two weeks after he had posted the initial message and about the time he had completed the final draft of the temporary governance agreement, five men arrived at Vader's shop near closing time. They were bare-headed and clad in civilian clothes. He had expected them to stand out, but most of them blended in quite naturally with Tatooine's hodgepodge of spacers, riffraff, thugs, and upstanding citizens. The first clone through the door was Cody, and Vader had to duck into the courtyard to collect himself. Of the more than three million clones created by Kamino, fewer than one hundred thousand survived. The rest had succumbed to age, injury, or war. The remainder had all been retired from active service, most dwelling in small enclaves scattered throughout the galaxy.

When he believed he had his voice under control, Vader returned to the shop, greeting the clones brusquely in Standard. "I'm Kaneis. As soon as I have closed up shop, I will be right with you."

Once Theec had left, he opened extra folding stools to accommodate the additional men around the counter and passed out shots of Corellian whiskey. "As I said, I’m Kaneis. My message indicated that I am in the process of dismantling a smuggling organization. That is factually correct, but the situation is a little more involved than that. The outfit being dismantled is the Hutt domination of Tatooine." Vader smiled faintly at the gasps. "Yes, I know it sounds ambitious. There are never any guarantees, of course, but I do believe we have a strong possibility of success. Before we go any further, though, what are your names?"

Cody was the only one he had known as Vader, though he was aware any of them could have served in the 501st. There was a possibility that he would know them by their designations, but he was not about to stir up that sarlacc's nest.

Hex, the explosives expert, had a full beard and a daredevil twinkle in his eye. He was clearly delighted with the job. The sniper, Scratch, wore a buzz cut so short, his scalp was visible, displaying a long scar across the back of his head. His bicep bore a tattoo Vader had seen often during the war: a clone trooper helmet peeking over a wall with Mando'a lettering underneath. The comms and intel specialists, Chatter and Dash, were batchmates and appeared to be close. Chatter sported a mustache and his left eyelid drooped slightly. Dash, who was clean-shaven and remarkably unbattered, boasted he would be able to smuggle all of them wherever they needed to go.

When the introductions were concluded, Vader said, "Welcome aboard, gentlemen. Your assignment is to infiltrate Jabba's palace and plant explosives on his sail barge before a major podrace. Unfortunately, we have no information on the palace or the location or security arrangements of the barge. That will be your job, Dash—to obtain the intel we need to make detailed plans."

Hex shifted slightly on his stool. "Excuse me, sir. When does this operation go live?"

"The actual assassination is scheduled for Boonta Eve, which is six weeks from now, and we will infiltrate the palace a week beforehand. The explosives will be placed the night before the podrace. Some of the ordnance will be remote-triggered and some will be on a timer. After the bombs are set, you will position yourselves in the desert where you can observe to confirm the destruction of the barge. You—" he gestured to Scratch "—will kill anyone who survives the explosion. The objective is to knock out all of the Hutt's lieutenants, as well as Jabba himself. I suggest that Cody serve as your backup. You are rated as a sniper, are you not?" he asked the commander, who nodded.

"I see, sir. Thank you, sir," said Hex.

Vader was inclined to remind him that he was not in the military anymore and that he did not report to Vader in any case. But the reproof would be futile. The clones had been conditioned to fall into a chain of command, and Vader wasn't going to be able to undo that programming at this point.

"We will also set charges to destroy the administrative sections of the palace. We will _not_ destroy the slave quarters or the lower levels. This is a targeted raid to destroy records but not kill slaves. Those devices will all be on timers, of course.

"Following the successful elimination of Jabba, you—" he turned to Chatter "—will hack into the public address system at the podrace arena so that an announcement can be broadcast. You will also slice into the planetary comm network with a message that will be provided to you. Are there any questions at this time?"

Cody, eyes intent in an expression that sent a flood of nostalgia through Vader, said, "Sir, if I may take the liberty, how will that break the Hutt cartel?"

“A fair question,” Vader answered, quashing his memories. "By itself, it would not. We have some other plans in play that will fill in the gaps. However, this is the linchpin."

Cody glanced around the circle. The clones looked at each other and nodded. "Very well, sir. We understand. Just one more question—you keep saying _we_ will do this. Are you planning to participate in this mission? Because all of us have at least some experience in infiltration, but if we bring a rank amateur, that could blow our plans all to pieces."

Vader smiled faintly. "I have not yet determined whether I will accompany you or not, but I assure you, Commander, that I am quite experienced in stealth operations. I will be no liability if I do tag along.” He rose and the clones followed. “If there are no more questions, here are instructions for your accommodations. It goes without saying that you must maintain a low profile for the duration. And comms silence. Absolutely no communications beyond your group."

"Yes, sir."

"Understood, sir."

The clones filed out and Vader locked the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With special thanks to my husband whose suggestions strengthened this chapter significantly.
> 
> Also, it might be rewarding to convert that hexadecimal code in Vader's contact information to text. ;- [It's the character string between the first and second periods.]


	10. Truth Outweighs the World

Three days before Boonta Eve, Vader was minding the shop alone. Theec had volunteered to guide one of the transmitter deactivation teams into Jabba's palace. Vader had reluctantly decided to remain in Mos Espa in case any last minute complications with the revolution arose. Though he would take great satisfaction in killing Jabba himself, Cody and the others were more than capable of carrying out the assassination. And he wasn't certain he could resist the temptation to use the Force against the _sleemo_ , which would be, if not a dead giveaway of his participation, at least a reckless and unnecessary risk.

About midday the girl from the moisture farm arrived on her monthly supply run, a rather battered silver and blue R2 unit at her heels. Vader crushed a stab of nostalgia when the memory of a similarly-decorated old friend threatened to rise. Presumably this was the droid she had been working to repair for the past several months; she must have decided she needed some more direct diagnostic assistance.

His assumption was borne out when she completed her purchase and rather hesitantly said, "Uncle Ben let me bring Artoo with me today. I was hoping you could take a look at him?"

Vader ignored the hitch in his breathing as memory reared its head a second time. He led the way to his repair bench in the front corner of the shop. A quick visual inspection confirmed she had installed the new fuel canisters properly and the jet ports were clean. "I don't see any obvious issues. I need to open up the legs."

She nodded while the droid whistled mournfully. Awkwardly, Vader patted it. "I promise I'll be sure to put everything back properly." Feeling rather foolish, he turned to the tool rack and selected a wrench and screwdriver.

"So—you call your droid Artoo?" Vader asked as he began inspecting the booster jets, resolutely focusing on the job in front of him.

"Yes. I know it's not very creative. There are probably lots of Artoos in the galaxy."

"Oh, I don't know. Most people don't nickname their droids. Artoo is rather obvious for this particular model, of course. The R2 series were very durable little droids. How old is this one, do you know?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. He belonged to my parents before I was born, so at least twenty years, I guess. But beyond that, I don't know."

"It's not that important to the repair. The parts haven't changed much over the years. I was merely curious. I've seen my share of astromechs. Now this little guy was manufactured on Naboo."

"Really? How do you know?"

Vader was carefully extracting the fuel canister from the left booster and kept his eyes on his hands as he said, "Only R2 droids built on Naboo had these types of jets. They were well regarded by pilots and mechanics. Rugged. Creative. Quick." The fuel canister finally released with a little pop. He inspected the cavity, then straightened and studied the droid. "I want to check the circuit board that governs the power regulation to the jets. You'll need to open your access panel."

It popped the panel open, and Vader shined the light in. "Hmmm. Mmhmm. Well, that doesn't seem to be the problem. The circuit board is in fine shape." He closed the panel and extinguished the light. "I think the only option is to take the legs apart to check the wiring. It's a long job, though. Do you want to tackle it?"

"Yes. My uncle has a lot to do. He said he would be quite a while."

"In that case…" Vader began removing bolts from the left leg.

After a moment's hesitation, the girl said timidly, "May I help? I could disassemble one of the legs…"

Wordlessly, he handed her the tools. He summoned the mouse droid, which rolled eagerly to his feet. Plucking another wrench from the caddy strapped to the droid, he set to work on the astromech's opposite leg. They worked in companionable silence, Vader humming tunelessly in brief spurts as he often did when absorbed in his work. "Aha." He pointed to the frayed wires. "There's your problem on this side. Is it the same on yours?"

The girl nodded.

He searched the shelves behind them for a moment, returning with a box of spare wires. "Do you know how to splice these in?"

She nodded, then began to strip the insulation and solder the wires together. He watched to be certain she was doing it properly before he resumed work on the other leg. Three quarters of an hour later, they reattached the final bolt. Vader lifted the unit to the floor. The droid tooted its thanks and asked whether it could test the jets. When Vader gestured toward the courtyard, it trundled out with a jaunty air, the girl in its wake. He tidied the work station, listening with some amusement to their chortles of glee. Clearly, the repairs had been successful.

After a few minutes she said, "That's enough, Artoo. Don't waste all the fuel; I can't afford to buy more."

They returned to the shop, the droid's dome whirling in delight. As though summoned by some mechanical brotherhood, the mouse droid zipped over and zoomed in ragged circles around them. Involuntarily, Vader smiled. "Do you have any other problems?"

The astromech spat a highly uncomplimentary string of binary, a rudely phrased objection to the sand in its casing. Amused, Vader wondered if the girl had understood all the terms her droid was using. Still smiling slightly, he offered to clean it. The unit beeped and whistled enthusiastic agreement, though the girl worried her lip until he assured her there was no charge. The miniature vacuum he used nightly on his prosthetics had proven so useful that he had built another for the shop. Squatting, he opened the droid's access panel.

"How often do you clean him?" he asked over the sound of the suction.

"Weekly, usually," she said, stepping behind a shelf overflowing with spare bolts, springs, gears, and other odds and ends. "He's about due. And I think maybe he picked up more sand than usual on the trip into town."

Vader nodded, reaching into the depths of the cavity with the wand. He grabbed his penlight and inspected his work. Satisfied, he was about to close the access panel when the droid's serial number caught his eye. Stunned, he leaned closer, but the numbers did not change. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he put on his reading glasses and peered more closely.

_R2-D2 SER3263827J203 MAN 967:03:27RR INDUSTRIAL AUTOMATION/THEED/NABOO_

The girl emerged from the shelves and smiled brightly. "Are you finished?"

"How—how did you get this droid?" His eyes did not waver from the astromech.

"Like I told you. He belonged to my parents before I was born. That's all I know." She shrugged lightly.

"Impossible." His voice grated more roughly than usual.

"Why?"

"Because he's my droid."

Artoo whistled loudly, almost sputtering with indignation.

Voice a little shrill, she protested, "He can't be your droid. My uncle wouldn't lie about that."

A familiar Coruscanti accent sounded from the doorway. "Lie? What wouldn't I lie about, Leia?"

Vader nearly lost his balance as he jerked toward the man he loathed second only to Palpatine. He rose with an ungainly stagger.

She darted to the interloper's side, face crumpled in distress. "Kraytrider says Artoo is his droid."

Kenobi placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture that sent a tide of bitter nostalgia through Vader. "I am most truly sorry, but there must be some mistake," he said earnestly. "This droid did belong to her parents before they died."

A surge of rage and jealousy poured over Vader. His ears rang with it.

Artoo twittered, dome twirling rapidly while he juddered from side to side. Vader hardly noticed.

The roar of blood rushing in his ears dizzied him. In his disorientation his tongue ran ahead of his brain. "Still lying to children, I see," he sneered. He surveyed the girl disdainfully. "How long will it be until she disappoints you? Will you claim you _love_ her as she burns?"

"Anakin!" Kenobi lurched forward, hand darting toward his side. He had gone ashen under his tan.

Vader stiffened. "Hardly Anakin, old man. He died." He lunged at Kenobi until they were standing face to face. "Betrayed by someone who called him _brother_ and swore he loved him."

Kenobi's eyes widened with indignation. "I did not betray—"

"You did." Vader jabbed his index finger at his adversary's nose. How dare he deny the truth! Kenobi retreated with one hand convulsed around his lightsaber. Vader advanced on him. "And you convinced _her_ to betray me too."

Kenobi stiffened, chin jutting forward. " _You're_ the one who betrayed—"

"Spare me the righteous indignation." Vader lifted his hand and reached for the Force. As he grasped the crackling energy field for the first time in nearly a year and a half, he froze. Without a lightsaber, the only way to fight Kenobi was directly with the Force. And that would bring Palpatine down on his head faster than he could say, "Yes, my Master." Trembling with the effort, he lowered his hand. If it came down to a choice between revenge on Kenobi and escape from Palpatine, he chose freedom. Every time.

He wrenched away, every nerve twanging with the desire to attack. Teeth clenched, he rode out the wave of fury (and hurt and betrayal, but he would never acknowledge those). Once he had himself in hand, he turned back, drawing a deep breath and relishing that he had reclaimed the power to do so, despite both of his masters' efforts. "You know what? I don't want to discuss this. It's water under the bridge. Or rather lava under the superstructure." He nearly spat the words. "Take your—what is she? your padawan?—and get out. I never want to see you again." He took refuge behind the counter, pretending to become absorbed in his accounts, though he positioned himself so he could see Kenobi out of the corner of his eye. The old Jedi groped blindly for a stool and sank onto it.

Artoo opened a panel and his electrical charger sparked as it shot out of its port. He squeaked and squealed shrilly, rocking from side to side, until Kenobi waved an impatient hand at the girl. She looked at him questioningly, but he merely gestured more sharply. Despite her evident confusion at the demand, she shut the droid down. Huffing a sigh, Kenobi gestured to her to take a seat too. She perched stiffly on another stool and stared at the two men, wide-eyed. Kenobi leaned heavily on the counter.

At length, rubbing his face heavily, he said, "Why are you here?"

"I live here." Vader removed his glasses and ostentatiously set them on the counter.

"Right." Kenobi sighed. "Let me try again. Why did you come back here? You always swore this was one step shy of the underworld."

"I wanted to get away from it all. This seemed like a good place. And thanks to you, I've already been to hell." His tone was acid. "On consideration, this isn't so bad." Vader strode around the counter and picked up tools at random, all the while avoiding looking at Kenobi, though his attention never wavered in the Force. His gut curled and writhed even as he maintained an icy demeanor.

"The reports said you disappeared over a year ago. The Emperor announced your death. You've been here the whole time?"

"After I had some necessary medical care. Yes."

Vader refused to elaborate. He stalked around the shop, returning tools to the wrong places. Silence stretched into minutes as Vader took refuge among the display of gears, springs, and small tools. Aimlessly, he straightened the bins.

At last Kenobi said, "What are you doing here?"

"None of your business, old man," Vader bit out from behind the shelves. Kenobi rounded the corner. Vader pretended not to notice.

"Are you on some sort of undercover mission?"

Vader snorted. "Hardly. I left."

Kenobi waited a beat, then said, "Left. Just like that?"

"More or less." Vader dropped a last gear into the wrong bucket and strode back to the counter. When would Kenobi get the message and leave? Not yet, apparently.

"Well, something must have provoked that. What?" Kenobi didn't follow him behind the counter, thank the Great Mother—merely stationed himself on the other side of it and continued staring at Vader.

"It is not any of your concern." Vader grabbed a sensor array and began unscrewing the cover.

"Perhaps not." Kenobi crossed his arms. "Nevertheless, I would like to know."

Vader did not lift his eyes from the array. "He betrayed me." The words grated painfully in his tight throat. 

Kenobi tipped his head and gazed pensively at a corner of the ceiling. "Really? He betrayed you? And you're surprised?" He looked back at Vader, mouth twisted. "It's his stock in trade."

To all appearances, Vader's attention remained riveted on his task. "Yes. But he had not betrayed _me._ He was the only one who didn't. You did. She did. _He_ helped me. Except I discovered his betrayal was the worst of all." The screwdriver slipped. Vader grunted as it jabbed his hand.

"I did _not_ —"

"Spare me." Vader repositioned the tool in the stubborn screw head. He bent all his concentration to removing it.

Kenobi paused. He gripped his chin. Vader could almost hear him employ his old trick of counting to ten when irritated. "Very well. I shall save that argument for later. How did he betray you?"

Every movement deliberate, Vader set down the screwdriver and gripped the sensor, staring at the opposite wall. "He promised me he could save her. And he killed her." His tone was flatter than the salt plains beyond the Dune Sea.

"We are talking about Padmé?" Kenobi's tone was infuriatingly compassionate.

"Yes."

"Ah." Kenobi sucked a deep breath and folded his arms tightly across his chest. "…he did not kill her. She died of unknown causes. The strangulation taxed her system. Combined with the pregnancy…"

"No." Vader drew a breath in turn. "He told me I killed her. When I woke up." The girl gasped, but Vader hardly noticed. The sensor crumpled between his fingers. "But it was him. He drained her life to keep me alive. Even though he had promised he knew how to save her."

Kenobi pulled at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm not quite following…"

Vader dropped the crushed sensor to the floor, pressed both hands on the counter, and leaned aggressively toward Kenobi. "I dreamed she would die in childbirth. The Jedi wouldn't help me. The med droids said she was perfectly healthy. But the dreams wouldn't stop. He told me a Sith legend—that the Sith could manipulate the midichlorians to keep someone from dying. Only that was a lie." He snarled the final word. "The holocron I accessed said the technique did not exist. But it told me about another technique in which a healthy person's life can be used to sustain the life of someone dying. As soon as I heard that, I knew—I knew what he had done." His voice trembled. He was vaguely aware that the girl's—Leia's—eyes were wide.

Kenobi's expression softened. He reached toward Vader's arm. "I am truly sorry. I know you loved her deeply."

"Yes. Well." Vader pulled away before Kenobi could actually touch him. "It's over and done. She's dead, and I can't change it. I was not prepared to confront him. But I will never serve him again. He won't find me here."

Kenobi studied Vader in silence for a long while. He sank heavily onto the stool again, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Vader assumed he was lost in some fruitless regret. Bending to pick up the crushed sensor, he examined it, but it was beyond repair. Ah, well. Kenobi was still hunched over, the girl studying him worriedly. How ironic that was. Long ago, Vader would have been the one with the anxious face. Though she was more patient than he had ever been and didn't try to disturb her master. Finally, Kenobi raised his head and turned to the girl. "You have been very quiet. Thank you."

She worried her bottom lip. "Um, Uncle Ben? You know Kraytrider?"

"Yes. Though not by that name."

"Who are you really?" she asked. "How do you know my uncle?"

Vader shook his head sharply. "It does not matter. It was long ago." His quarrel with Kenobi did not concern her, nor did she deserve rudeness from him because of it. He glanced at the courtyard. "You should be going if you want to get back before dark. I assume you have some distance to travel."

She nodded. "To the Jundland Wastes."

Vader frowned at Kenobi. "The Jundland Wastes? No one lives there!"

The other man looked up with a sad smile. "Exactly. It seemed a marvelous place to avoid Imperial notice."

"Seems a little harsh for your padawan."

Kenobi wrapped his arm protectively around the girl's shoulders. Vader sternly suppressed a quite irrational stab of envy. Kenobi said, "So—to be absolutely clear—you have no intention of returning. You have abandoned the Empire." The familiar piercing blue eyes demanded nothing less than complete truthfulness.

Vader jerked a nod. There was no reason to conceal his intentions.

Kenobi gnawed his lip, then studied the girl's face. At last, he heaved a sigh, as at some decision reached. He removed his arm and rose to his feet. "Then I believe it is time for the truth. Leia is rather more than my padawan. She is—" he closed his eyes briefly and braced himself before regarding Vader squarely. "She is Leia Naberrie Skywalker."

Vader stared at her as though she were a ravening gundark. _"What!"_ He wrenched his eyes back to Kenobi.

Leia blinked in shock. "But, Uncle Ben, you've always said—"

"Yes, I know. But in this case, Kraytrider needs to know your full name." Kenobi grasped her shoulder again, squeezing it gently. "It is quite true," he said to Vader. "Padmé gave birth before she died. I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you."

The words rang hollow and distant against his ears. He stood paralyzed, too dazed to think. He did not know what to do. Should he jump across the counter to throttle Kenobi? Should he destroy everything in sight? Should he grab this child and never let her go? Eventually he summoned enough breath to stammer, "P-P-Pad—" The tip of his tongue wet his lips. He swallowed drily. "Padmé's daughter?"

Kenobi nodded.

"Truly? The child lived?"

Kenobi nodded again. "The child lived."

Vader finally looked into her face. He gazed in wonder, cataloguing her features. Brown eyes. Pert nose—exactly like Padmé's. Rounded cheeks. Dainty pointed chin. Hair a shade darker and less chestnut than her mother's. He circled the counter, unaware of what he was doing, and stopped beside her. Stars! She was even shorter than Padmé had been. He thought of their work repairing Artoo. Her comments about life in the desert. Her apparent loneliness. She had never mentioned any friends. Only her uncle.

Her uncle.

Obi-Wan.

With the thought, the pattern of the past eighteen years shifted like a kaleidoscope, settling into a new and brighter form. Padmé had died, but their daughter had lived. Here she was, the little girl he had been sure they would have. And Obi-Wan had lived with her on Tatooine through all those years.

"Were you protecting her?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes."

"She's been with you, all this time?"

"Yes."

Vader bowed his head, eyes closed. How he regretted the years Palpatine had stolen from him. Years he could have spent with the last remnant of his family. Years when his life could have been filled with more than Palpatine and the pursuit of power and the pain of betrayal. He opened his eyes and gently touched her cheek with the fingers of one hand. She stared up at him, expression apprehensive. This precious child. Awed, he stretched out with the Force toward the daughter he had last sensed when she was still in her mother's womb. At the touch, a bond burst into full flower.

He jerked back. "She's shielding!"

"Of course she's shielding." Kenobi's tone stung. "You don't think I would neglect to teach her that, do you?"

"But—You mean—" He swallowed hard. "She's Force sensitive?"

Kenobi stared at him.

"Of course I'm Force sensitive. Why wouldn't I be? My father was a Jedi." Leia's indignation flared in the Force.

Vader jammed his thumbs in his belt loops to keep from reaching out to her again. "I—I didn't know Force sensitivity could be inherited."

"To be honest, neither did I," said Kenobi. "The received wisdom was that sensitivity doesn't run in families, and since Jedi didn't usually reproduce…But her sensitivity was clear at birth and I knew she must be hidden." He sighed. "I'm afraid your shielding is all the more imperative now," he said to Leia.

Vader looked sharply at Kenobi. "You believe she's still in danger? Surely you know I would never…"

"Anakin, I'm aware this has been a shock." He clipped the words tartly. "I will chalk that foolish remark up to the surprise. Of course she's in danger—the Empire hunts Force sensitives. And don't you think the Emperor would be eager to get his hands on her? Especially now?"

Icy fingers crawled down Vader's neck. It was true. Sidious would take vicious satisfaction in capturing any child of Anakin Skywalker. The range of things he might do to her was chilling. Anything from making her his new apprentice to using her to manipulate Vader.

Instantly, he knew what he had to do. He had once laid down his freedom for her mother. He would lay down his life for her safety. Eyes narrowed, he turned to Kenobi. "I'm eighteen years too late, but—will you help me? It won't be easy for either of us—but I am more likely to succeed if we work together. Truce?" He stuck his hand out. An endless moment stretched between them before the other man grasped it slowly, compressing his lips as he did so.

"Truce." The reluctance was clear in his tone. After the briefest pressure, he pulled his hand away. "What's your plan?"

"You know me better than that. But yes, we'll need a plan." Vader began to pace rapidly. "An absolutely foolproof plan. Because this cannot fail—her safety is paramount. This is too important to leave to improvisation and dumb luck."

"There is no such thing as luck." Kenobi's tone was wistful at the oft-repeated saying.

Vader shrugged nonchalantly. "All the more reason not to leave Palpatine's destruction up to it, then."

Leia grasped Kenobi's arm. "Uncle Ben? What's going on? I don't understand."

Vader came to a stop beside her. "It's simple. We're going to assassinate the Emperor. You won't be safe until he's dead."

"Me? What's so special about me?" She looked with pleading eyes at Kenobi, but it was Vader who answered.

"Because I am your father. And Palpatine will do anything to punish me."

Leia's anxious glance bounced between the two men. "My—father? But—" She bit her lip.

"He wasn't dead, Leia. I'm sorry I had to lie to you. I couldn't—" Kenobi broke off, hand rising and falling helplessly.

Vader said quietly, "Before you were born, I dreamed your mother would die in childbirth. The only person who offered me hope to save her was Emperor Palpatine—at the price that I become his apprentice. I was desperate, so—I did."

"His apprentice? Apprentice for what?"

Vader lowered his eyes. "The Sith."

"But—But—that can't be right. The Sith—" She licked her lips.

He forced himself to meet her eyes. "Use the Dark Side. Yes. It's true." He wet his lips too, tongue stiff with dread. "I'm sorry, Leia. My—my daughter. I became Darth Vader."

Horror splashed across her features and she ran out into the street.


	11. Truth Severe

Near sunset Vader crouched in a shadowy corner of the courtyard restlessly sorting parts. His mind was far away, still in shock and unable to concentrate enough to formulate coherent thoughts. Leia had been justifiably distressed by the revelation of his two previous identities and had refused to speak to him even after Kenobi brought her back to the shop.

Shrill beeping interrupted his introspection.

"Artoo," he whispered in a rough voice. In all the subsequent revelations, he had forgotten about this old friend.

The silver and blue droid rocketed across the courtyard, a flood of piercing binary blistering Vader's ears. When the droid drew close enough, he planted his forward wheel and surveyed Vader with his photoreceptor. For a droid, he gave an excellent impression of disdain. His tongue-lashing drew to a close with one final virtuosic series of insults.

Vader's head sank. "Yes. You're absolutely right. I was ten different kinds of fool."

Artoo flashed an image of Padmé lying on the pavement, hair fanned out around her. Vader quailed.

"Please. Don't. I see it every night in my dreams."

A blatted denunciation dwindled into a downcast whistle. Vader risked a glance back at the droid. The holo was gone. "I—No doubt I deserve every moment of anguish, but I just can't…" He swallowed heavily. "You went with Kenobi?"

Artoo shrilled an accusation.

"Yes. I see that. It's just as well you did. I went back for you. Later. But if I'd found you, Sidious would never have let me keep you."

An inquisitive note.

"Darth Sidious. Palpatine. He didn't let me keep anything from my old life—not even…"

Artoo tootled an inquiry, but before Vader could answer, Kenobi approached. Now that he had attention to spare, Vader noticed how much the man had aged. His hair had thinned and his beard had grayed. He appeared reasonably fit, though his waist was thicker than it once had been.

"Is she all right?" Vader asked hesitantly, rising to his feet.

Kenobi nodded. "Irate, of course."

"Understandable."

Kenobi waved awkwardly at Artoo. "Getting reacquainted?"

"More like getting chewed out for my incredible stupidity."

The older man said nothing very eloquently. Vader shifted restlessly, then overturned a box and sat on it. After a pause that stretched uncomfortably, Kenobi sighed. "Artoo, why don't you stay with Leia? I think she could use some company, and she's rather angry with me right now."

The droid's dome circled once before he hummed a low tone in farewell and rolled slowly back toward Vader's quarters. Kenobi seated himself on a convenient engine block.

Silence fell, broken only by the clink of metal as Vader continued sorting parts. At length, without looking up, he said, "You had Artoo….Do you know what happened to Threepio?"

"Padmé's protocol droid? He came with me too."

"Leia has never mentioned him."

"He malfunctioned a couple of years ago. I—I haven't been able to afford to repair him. Leia begged me not to disassemble him, though…"

The conversation ground to a halt again. The shadows deepened.

Vader cleared his throat. "Did you name her?"

"No. Padmé chose her name. I did choose to include Naberrie and Skywalker. I wanted her to have some remnant of her parents." Kenobi was now fidgeting with a pair of gears, rolling them round and round against each other.

Vader struggled with his resentment for a moment, but the man had sacrificed the past eighteen years to raise Leia. He spoke haltingly. "Thank you for taking care of her. For keeping her safe. I don't necessarily appreciate that you brought her to this dustball, but—" He could not quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

"She has been a delight. I do not regret a moment of it." Kenobi paused and looked down. "I wish I had done a better job with you. I would give anything to go back and do things better."

Vader twisted farther away from him. "Don't bother with your remorse, old man. I don't want to discuss it."

Kenobi kept silent a long time. Eventually he said, "All right. If you ever change your mind…" He trailed off, then started again. "But I do need to say that I regret much that happened. It all got away from me—from us—there at the end."

Vader gave a sharp nod and continued sorting parts, odds and ends clinking and rattling as he tossed them onto piles.

Another lengthy, uncomfortable pause. Kenobi set down the gears and looked directly at Vader. "I am wondering where you want to start in taking down the Emperor."

"I'm not sure yet. I'm still trying to get over the shock. I have a daughter." He brushed aside the objection Kenobi wasn't making. "Oh, she's not actually mine of course. She's almost grown. But…I can't quite…" He trailed off, picking up a pipe and fidgeting with it.

Kenobi waited for him to continue. "You need time. There's no rush, really. I was just curious what you had in mind." He paused. Almost spoke. Hesitated.

Brusque and impatient, Vader prompted him. "What is it?"

"I may know some people who could assist. I could ask them, if you'd like."

"They're trustworthy? No security risks?" Vader finally looked at him, blue eyes sharp and demanding.

"None. I would trust them with my life."

"Who are they?"

"I prefer not to say until I know they are willing. I can send a message—tomorrow, I suppose, since it's almost evening. It may be several days before they reply, though." He brushed at some sand clinging to his hem. "On a different topic—can you recommend a safe inn for us to stay at tonight? It's far too late for us to return home."

Vader dropped his eyes to the pipe he was turning over and over in his hand. "You may stay here. In fact, it would be best if you stay at least through Boonta Eve. It's three days from now and—Well, you'll be safer here."

"Boonta Eve? Why is that special?"

"There's the pod race that day. Jabba will be traveling into town, and there are all sorts of undesirables that have come for the race and the festivals. I—would feel more comfortable about Leia's safety if you stay here."

Kenobi considered the matter. "Very well. In any event, it will give Leia time to get to know you a bit."

Vader shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, I will not be here." Resolutely, he continued gazing at the pipe twisting between his hands. "I need to go somewhere."

After a small pause, Kenobi said, "Where?"

"I'm not sure." He shot a sideways glance at Kenobi. "I just—know I need to go."

Kenobi tilted his head, studying Vader, who continued to stare at the pipe. He gave a small shrug. "I see. When will you return?"

"I don't know. When I do." Vader poked the pipe absently at a pile near his feet. "If a man named Kitster Banai stops in, tell him if I'm not back, he can do it without me." At Kenobi's puzzled expression, he said, "Kit will understand. Just pass the message."

Kenobi nodded, and they were quiet for a time. The silence grew heavy. Vader stared unseeingly at the courtyard. Eventually he said with an air of abstraction, "I need to construct a new lightsaber."

"A new one? Don't you have one?"

Vader gripped the pipe tightly. "No. I jettisoned it and the suit after I left the medcenter. Most satisfying shot I've ever made, destroying that suit."

"I suppose it must have been gratifying." Kenobi contemplated his fingers spread on his knee as he said, "You look quite—healthy. I assume you would not have worn the suit if you had not needed it."

"No," Vader replied tersely. "Though Palpatine might have required it."

"But you're free of it."

"It was another of his lies—that I could not live without it. The medical staff told me it was barely adequate—and much bulkier than necessary." The two were carefully avoiding each other's eyes. "They replaced the prosthetics, too—shorter and lighter. Apparently the ones Palpatine installed were putting stress on my bones and muscles. They were too heavy and long. He wanted his monster to be as intimidating as possible." Vader's tone was bitter on the final sentence.

Kenobi was silent again. When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. "I don't know what to say. It was cruel to leave you to burn."

Vader cut him off with a gesture. "I already said I don't want to discuss it. Anyway, I don't have a lightsaber, so I need to make one."

Kenobi squirmed. "Err, I do have your old one…."

"You do?" Vader's head shot around. He jerked away again. "Of course you do…" A short pause. Then, "Leia's been using it?"

"A little. It's rather big for her, truth to tell. But I don't have another crystal and…Well, I didn't want to disassemble yours. Maybe this is why." Kenobi looked up at last.

Vader shook his head. "No. I can't use that one. It—doesn't feel right. The Force is telling me I need a new one." He surged to his feet.

Kenobi followed him. "But where will you get a crystal?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'll have to look for one."

"At Ilum? The Empire blockaded it."

"Not Ilum. Somewhere else. I don't know…" He bit his lip. "Please—stay here with Leia until I get back. I hope to return by Boonta Eve."

After another lengthy examination of Vader's face, Kenobi nodded slowly. Vader pivoted with almost military precision and strode out of the courtyard.


	12. Stopping by Caves on a Sandy Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to canon purists, I have altered slightly the spelling of Tatooine's secondary moon for artistic purposes.

Late that night, Vader strode across the sands in response to some inexorable power—whether the Force or some other call—that urged him into the desert relentlessly. His muscles quivered with the aftereffects of the day's confrontations and revelations, yet he could not rest. He did not know what drove him, but time was short and growing shorter, so he trudged hour after hour through the biting cold and the hushed stillness. The whole world seemed to hang upon his next actions.

His way was lit by the three waxing moons advancing toward one another. He had been peripherally aware of the preparations for the Grand Assembly, but absorbed in the final stages of planning for the revolution, he had not paid particular attention. He had long ago given up noting Tatooine's culturally significant events. Now, as he walked steadily east across the desert, he observed the Three Sisters approaching one of their rare triple conjunctions in the constellation of the Great Krayt.

Ghomrassen and Ghermessa, the primary and secondary moons, met often in the skies and their conjunctions were not considered remarkable, but tiny Chenini wandered far in her elliptical orbit, her appearance and disappearance notable events among the inhabitants of the desert. Conjunctions of the three occurred irregularly and always heralded auspicious times. Endeavors succeeded. Crops flourished. New businesses prospered. Children born under the three moons were considered especially blessed.

By far the most auspicious conjunctions were those that occurred in the Great Krayt, which lay near the peak of the southeastern sky at this season. Among the slaves, the constellation was particularly noteworthy for the krayt's mythical role in assisting runaways to freedom across the desert. An escape attempt was thought to be more likely to succeed when begun under the blessing of the Great Krayt and the Three Sisters.

Bitterness welled up. What a load of bantha fodder. The Three Sisters, even without the augmentation of the Great Krayt, had guided his way across the desert the night he sought his mother, but the conjunction had not done her much good, had it? His rescue had come too late and she had died anyway.

Doggedly he pushed away the recollection. It was irrelevant. He could not afford to dwell on that other frantic journey across the sands and its tragic conclusion.

He himself had never witnessed a Grand Assembly; the last such meeting had taken place on the night of his birth. He wasn't certain, but it appeared the festival might coincide with Boonta Eve itself. No wonder Kit had been so pleased with their plans to overthrow Jabba at the Boonta Eve Classic.

He had left Mos Espa almost impetuously, pausing only to leave a curt message on Kitster's comm with instructions to carry through their plans, whether he had returned or not. He hoped Kit would have the courage to proceed without him if necessary, especially with the reinforcement he had left with Kenobi. Fortunately, the clones were already in position and had gone comms silent. In hindsight, it was just as well he had decided not to accompany them.

Through the night hours as he tramped at a steady pace across the dunes, his thoughts turned to the day's revelation and he yearned for what might have been. If he had been able to let his fears for Padmé go, would she have died anyway? Had it been fated? But even if it had been inevitable, at least he could have been with her at the end. Perhaps he could have given her some small comfort in her last moments. Instead she had died heartbroken and betrayed, calling in vain for him.

In light of what he now knew, he was forced to admit that though she may have conspired to bring Kenobi to Mustafar, the true betrayal that night had been his. He had broken not only his vows to the Jedi but also his vows to her when he knelt before Sidious.

He was rather resentful that he owed Kenobi so much, both for his efforts to save Padmé and for raising Leia. They had sorted out none of their differences, and he never wanted to face any version of that conversation. Yet some of the bitterness he had cherished for the past eighteen years had faded, and he felt genuine gratitude that although Leia had been hidden from her father, so she had also been protected from Sidious.

Thoughts of Leia were painful. He regretted that it had been necessary to tell her about Darth Vader so soon after the discovery of their relationship. On the other hand, it was probably best that she know the truth at the start. She might never want anything to do with him, but that was entirely his fault. He was in no position to ask—let alone expect—anything of her.

Nonetheless, her safety outweighed the galaxy. He had sacrificed everything in a vain bid to preserve her mother's life and he would do no less for her. Only this time he would make no fool's bargain with the devil. No, this time he would achieve his goals on his own terms. If that required cooperating with Kenobi, he would swallow his rage and his pride. Kenobi's betrayal of their friendship paled next to Sidious's treachery.

He still felt a little stunned by his rapid course change. If anyone had asked him two minutes before Kenobi walked into his shop whether he would ever consider facing Sidious again, he would have refused emphatically. Yet no sooner had he learned Leia's true identity than he at once set his course toward his master's destruction. Palpatine had assisted him in creating a royal mess of his life; the man would never have a chance to do the same with Leia. The question of whether she had absorbed the flawed Jedi philosophy shrank into insignificance when set beside the possibility that she might someday bow before Sidious.

His thoughts chased each other through the night. Near dawn he began to search for a place to shelter for the day. About half an hour after first sunrise, he spotted a derelict hulk in the distance, and he ducked into it as the second sun cleared the horizon. The structure had once been a spaceship that had crashed to the surface many years ago. Judging from the wear patterns in the metal, the crash had occurred perhaps as much as two or three centuries ago. He shined his light around the dim interior to confirm that no wildlife had claimed it, then methodically made camp in the dimmest spot.

He slept heavily for several hours through the heat of the day, rousing in the late afternoon. He ate and spent almost two hours cleaning sand out of his prosthetics with a brush. He had brought his little vacuum with him, as well as a pair of auxiliary battery packs, but he was sparing with its use nevertheless. No telling how often he might need to clean his joints before he returned to Mos Espa.

When the suns had sunk nearly below the horizon, he shouldered his pack and resumed his eastward trek. He estimated he had walked about thirty kilometers the night before. As ever in the desert, the greatest concern was going to be his water supplies. He had brought enough water bulbs for four days of careful rationing, supplemented by a small vaporator. Unfortunately the vaporator's capacity was limited to one liter, and it was most effective when used at night. Since he was camping during the day, the vaporator had only drawn about six hundred milliliters from the air. Still, it would help extend his water supplies, and he might be able to find a spring if his path led him into the canyons that lay ahead of him.

Following that indistinct but urgent call, he marched through the night again, his way lit by the stars and the Three Sisters. They were closer to one another than they had been the night before, effulgent and portentous. To pass the time and to hold darker memories at bay, he spent fruitless hours mulling over possible plans to defeat his master.

Time and again, potential strategies were thwarted by the Emperor's paranoia. If he were still his master's trusted lieutenant, it would be so simple. He would be able to slip close enough to find or make an opportunity. Program a mouse droid as an assassin, for instance. Or sabotage his bathing unit to drown him. Even march right up and spear him with a lightsaber.

But now he had no access to the heart of the Empire. If he could succeed in infiltrating Imperial Center, he would not be able to enter the palace undetected. All his codes were surely either deactivated or monitored. Or both. Obviously, it would be advantageous to attack Palpatine away from the seat of his power, but the Emperor almost never left the capital. After hours of contemplation Vader still had no solution to the conundrum.

Toward dawn he reached a canyon. There were several depressions and small caves pocking the cliff base, and he had just decided to set up camp in one when he noticed sand skittering by his feet. A quick glance to the east revealed a blur against the horizon. As the sky brightened, the tell-tale smudge became more pronounced. A sandstorm was heading his way, and while any of the hollows would be better than nothing, none had as much shelter as he would like.

He hurried along the cliff base, examining each fissure in hopes it would lead deeply into the bluff. Every few minutes he scanned the horizon, trying to judge how much time was left before the storm arrived. He pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose and tugged his hood down to shield his eyes as the dust began to swirl higher above the ground. He didn't have much more time.

He almost passed the cave by. The narrow cleft in the rock was masked by a pair of boulders and was so low he had to bend nearly double to get inside. Afterward he never could explain what prompted him to examine it more closely. It felt nothing like the nudges he was accustomed to from the Force. His best explanation was that whatever had called him into the desert had led him to the cave.

As soon as he had pulled his pack through the opening, he shed his cloak and did his best to secure it across the entrance. It was not much in the way of shelter, but perhaps it would keep the worst of the sand out of the cave. Though the first sun had now risen, the light was dim through the storm and the cloak. He pulled his lantern out of his pack, hoping this cave was not already in use by a canyon krayt or a plague of womp rats. He was relieved to find himself the sole occupant except for some fungus growing up the rear wall and a small colony of rock beetles. It was reassuring to know that he had food resources if he needed them.

He made camp swiftly, setting up his vaporator and bedroll. In spite of the cloak, there was a fair bit of airborne dust in the cave. After a brief debate with himself whether eating was worth the sand he would get in his mouth, he decided it wasn't necessary. He drank half a water ration and lay down to sleep.

He awoke to the same roar of the wind and harsh scraping of the sand along the cliff face that had lulled him to sleep. Sand was collecting around the cloak and swirling in the air. Despite its small entrance, the cave had a high ceiling, and as the air seemed to be clearer closer to the ceiling, he stood at the farthest corner of the leeward side to eat his ration bars.

There was nothing to do once he had eaten. It was pointless to clean his prosthetics until the storm died down, though sand was beginning to grate in his joints. Idly he rummaged through his pack and found a small roll of tools and parts. He was not certain why he had brought them. He would need a lightsaber when he faced Palpatine, of course, but as he had no crystal, he could not complete it. Still, in lieu of any other employment, this would do. He sat on a small shelf of rock on the leeward side of the cave. Maybe it would lift him far enough off the ground so that the components would not pick up too much sand.

He worked for hours, unaware of the passage of time, slipping in and out of a light meditation. He had barely touched the Force in the past year, intent on leaving no traces of his presence for Palpatine to track. But this sort of listening to the Force's direction left little mark in its wake, and in any case, he only intended to hide long enough to lay his plans before he forced a confrontation with his master. So he allowed the Force to direct his hands as he assembled the shell and the wiring until he had proceeded as far as he could without the crystal.

Constructing a lightsaber was a religious discipline for both Jedi and Sith, but the assembly of the hilt was the least time-consuming and least mystical part of the process. The meditations with the crystal, which were what bound crystal and wielder in the Force, usually required weeks, although he had never spent so long on the process personally. At least the hilt components were now ready when he obtained a crystal.

His stomach rumbled, and his mouth was parched. He neatly rolled up the components and tools and felt his way over to the pack. He turned on the lantern while he ate and drank, then consulted his water supplies. They were not yet perilously low, but he had no way of knowing how much longer the storm would last. It could be another day or two before the wind blew itself out. By then he would be running low on supplies, even with his compact vaporator. He was not tired, so perhaps he should seek a water source. He could feel moisture in the air, which meant there was a decent chance that there was a spring somewhere near. He turned to examine the cave's crevices.

It took some time, but as he had nothing to do and nowhere to go, he did not fret over it. On the windward wall, he eventually discovered a fissure in the rock. He returned his bedroll and supplies to his pack, shouldered it, and donned his now-tattered and sandy cloak. Immediately dust began to blow into the cavern. Had the ferocity of the wind lessened? He shrugged, picked up the lantern, and returned to the crevice. It was a snug fit, but he was able to pass through without difficulty. The gap opened slightly into a tunnel. As he passed through, he sensed its walls gradually spreading apart from one another. The feeble light from his lantern illuminated perhaps a meter in front of him.

The tunnel led into a space that felt very large—and he could hear water trickling somewhere nearby. He stood quietly for some moments, trying to pinpoint the direction. The acoustics of the cavern confused his ears, but he finally decided it was to his right. Near the wall some distance from the tunnel he found a tiny spring bubbling up from the ground. The floor around the spring was covered in fungus taking advantage of the precious moisture.

He knelt beside the water to replenish his supplies, and he had just finished returning the bulbs to his pack when he heard a skittering to his left. The lantern did not pierce far enough through the gloom to reveal the source of the sound. The skittering stopped, succeeded by hissing. Whatever was in here with him was clearly unfriendly. He rose, leaving his pack on the ground, and slowly paced toward the noise, carrying his lantern in his left hand. He rather wished he had a lightsaber to hand. Even a blaster would do.

He had traveled perhaps five meters when he saw something gleaming ahead of him. Eyes. Judging from their position in the air, the creature was not small, though it probably was not terribly large either. He debated. Should he kill it without knowing what it was? A Sith would do it without hesitation. A Jedi would refrain until the creature proved ill intent. Maybe if he got a little closer, he could see enough to determine what it was.

Slowly he stepped forward. He had gone about a meter when a warning jangled from two directions. Without thinking, he lashed out with the Force as a creature sprang at him, hissing loudly. There were two cries, one right after the other, followed by a pair of wet thumps. He cautiously edged toward the closer one, alert for another attack. It was a womp rat—easily two meters in length—with its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. There was a second one in a similar state behind him. Vigilantly, he moved in the direction the first rodent had come from.

He nearly tripped over the nest. It was probably what had drawn the womp rats in the first place. A depression in the floor of the cave was filled with a spongy substance that he rather thought must be the mushrooms that grew by the spring. Nestled amongst the padding were nine leathery eggs, each about the size of both his fists. He did not know enough about Tatooine's reptiles to be certain which one had laid the eggs. Dewbacks didn't usually live in caves, but he had no idea if they might nest in them. Either type of krayt might also lay its eggs in a cavern this size.

Cautiously he stepped around the nest, searching with his eyes and ears as well as the Force for any other threats. He found nothing and returned to his pack beside the spring. In other circumstances he might carry one of the carcasses with him, but he wasn't equipped to haul it. Furthermore, he didn't know how much longer it would take to do whatever it was he was supposed to do. He decided to leave the carcasses where they lay.

He began making his way back to the tunnel. The mother would not welcome his presence in her nursery, and the passageway was too small for whatever had laid those eggs to pass through. The cave where he had been staying seemed the best option for waiting out the storm.

Without warning, a rich, ancient voice rumbled. "Who are you, and why do you disturb my nest?"

Startled, he dropped the lantern. The light vanished to the sound of shattering glass. Heart hammering, he twisted around awkwardly. The echoing darkness gave no clue who had spoken.


	13. Here There Be Dragons

The being that had spoken sounded large. Vader bowed courteously, his mother's tales of polite slave boys and kind peasant girls ringing in his ears. _All doors open to courtesy, which costs nothing and gains everything._ "Great One, I took refuge from the storm and needed water for the desert journey."

The rich voice rumbled reprovingly, "That is why, but not who. Who are you?"

"I am called Kraytrider."

A soft bellow awoke the echoes. "This is not your true name, and you have no right to claim it. You may plan to free the slaves, but it is for your own ego, not compassion's sake, that you do this. You have neither kept your oaths nor told the truth. Now I ask you again: who are you?"

How could it know? Menace hung in the air as he paused. "No. It is not my true name, Great One. My name is Vader."

The atmosphere grew more oppressive, and the voice rose in a great crescendo until it thundered. "Twice you have spoken deceitfully, son of the desert. I permit no one to claim what is false more than three times. For the last time, what is your name?"

At last he knew what he faced. This was a greater krayt, and only the purest truth would satisfy her. _The truth alone gives life,_ his mother's voice whispered. His own voice felt small as he said, "My name is—Anakin Skywalker, Great Mother."

A low growl throbbed through the darkness, but the menace lessened. "Very well, Anakin Skywalker who is called Vader. You shall live for now, but I claim my Three Questions. You have answered one truthfully, yet you have spoken untruthfully twice. A third lie and you will not escape. Why are you here?"

"Great Mother, as I told you, I needed water."

"That is not an untruth. But it is not the whole truth either. Why have you come?"

Anakin was quiet. The krayt said nothing, waiting patiently in the blackness. When he spoke, his voice was halting. "I do not know. Something called me, so I came. But I do not know what it is, and I do not know why."

There was a pause as though the krayt weighed his words. The silence stretched. "This is a truth. The final Question: What do you want?"

He thought long and hard. Finally he said with confidence, "To kill my master."

A deep hiss in the darkness. "That is a truth, but not _the_ truth."

He considered again, then said quietly, "To be free."

"That is still not _the_ truth." Her voice was a warm rumble all around him. "You want these things, but they are not what you want most."

He never knew how long they faced each other in the gloom before he whispered, "I want my child to be safe, and well, and happy. To know her. And not to be alone anymore."

Her approval seemed to shake the world. "Good, Anakin Skywalker called Vader. Very good. Your honesty has earned you your life. As you have already taken the water you sought, that shall be the boon you might by right have asked of me."

He bowed again. "Thank you, Great Mother."

Abruptly the foreboding menace returned. Anakin flinched. "I smelled death when I arrived. You have spoken the truth of the Three Questions. Now I ask: Why does my nest stink of death?"

He wet his lips. "I killed a pair of womp rats that threatened me. I believe they were seeking your eggs."

"My eggs." The krayt's voice echoed through the cavern. "What do you know of my eggs?"

"I was searching for more womp rats when I saw the nest. But I did it no harm, Great One." He wondered if he would pay for his knowledge with his life, despite the bargain of the Three Questions.

The krayt was silent for a long time, long enough that Anakin began to sweat. A great gust of air blew past him. It was several seconds before he realized she had sighed. "Then I owe you a debt, son of the desert. It must not remain unpaid."

"I—I assure you, Great Mother, that you owe me no debt. The womp rats threatened my life. I did not know of your nest."

"Do you tell me that you would not have protected the young if your own life had not been threatened?"

"I—"

"Do not speak in haste. I will hear the true answer."

He stuttered to a stop. At last he whispered, "I do not know what I would have done. I think I _might_ have protected them. But there are other younglings I did not protect from a much greater threat."

He faltered into silence.

After a heavy pause, the krayt said, "You must speak the words if they are to be yours, Anakin Skywalker. The first step in repentance is always the naming." Her voice was gentle but stern.

"My child," he whispered.

The krayt said nothing. Waiting.

The silence had grown too thick to bear when he choked out his confession at last. "I attacked her mother in my anger and selfishness. I would have—" he swallowed with difficulty, throat so tight he could hardly force out the words— "killed them both if I had not been stopped."

"And yet even this, as grave as it was, is not the entirety of your crimes against those who cannot defend themselves." She fell silent again.

"The Jedi children." He stopped, hoping that would satisfy her, but still she waited. With a sinking heart, he admitted she would say no more until he had named the crime in full. "They trusted me, and I murdered them. I told myself they were better off dead than trained in the Jedi lies or taken by Sidious. But really I wanted no competition for my own position as Sidious's apprentice. Or for my child's status."

Still she said nothing. The darkness itself seemed to lean in, pressing against him, stifling him with the weight of her expectation. When he thought he could endure the silence no longer, she said more softly than seemed possible for such a creature, "And still you avoid your naming."

He knew what she meant. All the same, it was many long seconds before he could make himself speak. And even then he stumbled over the words. "The Sand People. I hated—I hate them—for what they did to my mother. I slaughtered them all—including the children."

"Your hatred is not unreasonable," her tone was the gentlest yet, "but it is no excuse for wanton destruction."

"They killed her. For no reason. She never hurt anyone—she did good all her life. She chose to remain in slavery to help others. They deserved to suffer for what they did." The old anger had ignited, hot and quick and fueled by disillusioned faith. "I—I asked for help to save her. The Sisters were meeting that night. But they did nothing! She died in my arms." It was a cry of agony. The first tragedy he had not been able to prevent. The one that had broken his hope.

"On the contrary. The moons blessed your journey that your mother might not die alone. Shmi Skywalker suffered greatly, it is true, but she never despaired, and they guided you across the sands in order that she might be comforted at her death. The Sisters offered you light." She had spoken mildly—almost tenderly—but now she growled deep in her throat. "You plunged into darkness. Even your Force cried out in warning. Yet you paid no heed. Rather, you exacted your vengeance."

Longing to flee in the face of these unbearable truths, he was riveted in place by something greater than himself.

"Was it justice, Anakin Skywalker? Did it increase the galaxy's store of goodness? Did it bring light to the Riders of the Wastes, lost in ignorance and superstition?" Gentle but firm, her measured words struck his spirit like silent hammer blows. "Personal feelings must not justify evil."

He stood a long time fighting the bitterness that even now filled him at the memory of his mother's suffering. The Great Mother did not speak again.

This was it. The core of his sin. His personal feelings had always governed him. Had been his justification for every evil he had committed. As long as he justified his actions because they served his ends or because someone had wronged him, he would be a slave whether he bowed before a master or not. With a choked-off cry, he surrendered to a truth he had fled all his life. He could not forgive the Sand People for what they had done. He could not release his bitterness at what his mother had suffered at their hands. But he would use it to excuse his own crime against them no longer. "It was not justice, Great Mother."

"Would you do it again?"

He clenched his fists until the gears groaned. "No. Never again."

"This also is a truth. What amends will you offer?"

His head remained bowed. His whisper dropped straight to the floor with the weight of his shame. "I cannot do anything. The evil is too great."

"Do not be so swift to abandon hope." The low rumble sounded almost soothing. "Will you swear to defend those who cannot defend themselves? To do what is right when it is easier to do wrong? To respect the natural order of life and death? To submit to the will of the desert and your Force rather than strive to make them submit to you? Consider carefully, Anakin Skywalker called Vader. To break _this_ Oath will cost your life."

The indistinct call he had followed through the desert sharpened. This was what he had been summoned to do: to take the Krayt's Oath—solemn, binding, unbreakable. The stories said that the Oath could be refused, but the one who did forfeited all help from both krayt and desert. They told how the Oath was offered by the desert itself through the Great Mother. That those who accepted it were bound for life to the terms but that the desert itself would help them fulfill their vows.

He never knew how long he considered the question. Could he keep the Oath? He had broken his vows to the Jedi, the Sith, even his own wife. Would he exercise the fidelity it demanded? The krayt seemed willing to wait as long as necessary. Finally he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. "I will take the Oath." He dropped to one knee, as he had done to bind himself to both the Jedi and the Sith.

"Do not bow to me, son of the desert. I am not your master, and I never will be. I will be your ally for the work that lies before you, but I shall not command you. Stand up, you who would be free."

Anakin hesitated. Was he seeking a new master? The ease of surrendering control of his life to another? He searched his heart for long moments. At last he looked up, though he could see nothing in the dark cave. "I do not bow to you as my master, Great Mother, but only in humility at the vow I am taking." His voice grew faint. "I have failed to keep every oath I have ever made, but now I see that I took those vows in pride and ambition. I take this one in humility, knowing my own weakness and failures."

The krayt's voice rolled through the cavern. "You have spoken well, Krayt Rider. Very well. Make the Oath."

"I—You know that Kraytrider is not my name, Great One."

"It is now. Make your vow, Anakin Skywalker the Krayt Rider."

He drew a shaky breath. His voice was thready as he began, but it strengthened as he recited his Oath. "I swear to defend and protect the weak, to submit to the will of the Force and the desert, to—respect the natural order of life and death. I promise that I will do what is right, even if it costs me what is most dear. I swear by the desert, the Two Brothers, and the Three Sisters in the presence of the Great Mother." As he spoke, the mysterious call that had drawn him into the desert grew deafening. It was so overwhelming, it almost drowned out the Force, which rang like a great bell. Anakin fell back in an ungainly sprawl. The Great Mother's bellow of approval shook the walls and ceiling of the cavern.

"Good! It is very good! Now come."

He could not see her turn toward the opposite wall of the cavern, but he heard her moving away. He scrambled for his dropped lantern, hoping it would still work, but had no sooner grasped it than she reproved him.

"You will not need your light. Come."

Gripping the lamp nevertheless, he stumbled in her wake, following her presence by some combination of the strange magic in this place, the sounds of her movements, and the guidance of the Force. She had no presence in the Force that he could detect, though she was perhaps the most alive being he had ever met. He might have puzzled over that contradiction more, except he was too busy trying to keep up without tripping.

He gasped when he stepped into a second cavern—rather smaller than the first, he thought, though still large enough not to feel cramped with the bulk of a krayt in it. Where was the light coming from? He glanced around, discovering eventually that a cleft in the cavern's roof framed the constellation of the Great Krayt above. The leading edge of Ghermessa was even now clearing the rim of the fissure.

"Take what you will need to fulfill your oath, Skywalker Krayt Rider," she said.

He tore his gaze from the void overhead to look at her. Her eyes gleamed silver in the faint light. He caught an impression of bulky immensity that was nonetheless incredibly graceful. Just how big was she, anyway? He shoved the question aside. It was irrelevant. She paced along one wall, saying, "This is my treasure house. You may claim one thing that will assist you in keeping your vow. Choose well, for mortals see the krayt's treasure but once in a lifetime."

Every instinct cried out to keep his attention focused on her, radiating as she did the untamable menace of an apex predator. It was with great effort that he turned to study the contents of the cavern, mere indistinct shapes in the dimness. His finger twitched over the lamp's power switch, but he restrained himself. The krayt had said he would not need his light. He hoped that was not merely because she did not understand the limitations of human vision in the darkness. He scanned the cave but saw nothing that seemed essential to his quest. Slowly he walked among the piles and along the walls. The krayt had not moved from her position near the door. He caught glimpses of strange shapes and gleams that might be moonlight reflected off metal. He had wandered through the entire cavern without finding anything that felt right. Sighing, he turned to survey the cave once more when a flash caught his eye.

It disappeared as soon as he turned his head, but he walked in the direction it had come from. Reaching the wall, he could see no sign of what had drawn his attention. He examined the area from different angles without success. Not understanding why he continued to search, but knowing in his bones that it was important, he ran his hand across the wall. While the nerves in the prosthetics were not nearly as sensitive as those in a natural hand, they were adequate to perceive the roughness of the stone and the softness of the overlaid moss. Something had caught the light. The wall was uneven, with hollows and protrusions. It was in one of the hollows that he felt it: A small nub with a different texture than the surrounding rock. It seemed to be covered with moss. His fingers groped along its outline, and with a quiet _snap_ , it dropped into his hand, gleaming as it fell.

As he caught it, the Force and that other strange call rang in harmony again. The almost-sound was so loud that he thought he could hear it with his ears, staggered again at its power. He brushed moss off the stone to find he was holding a crystal. He turned and held it up. It glinted and flashed in the silvery light.

"Is this your choice?" the krayt asked.

"Yes, Great Mother. It is the heart of the weapon I must build to defeat my master." He bowed in her direction. "I crave your favor. I do not know why, but I must make it here, while the Three Sisters meet above in the heart of the Great Krayt. Will you grant this boon?"

"Do what is necessary, Krayt Rider," she said and settled herself in her place by the door.


	14. Who Looks Inside

He settled onto his knees in a small clear spot directly beneath the great ceiling fissure. Ghermessa was framed between Choiala and Jedahag—Justice and Freedom—the two stars that marked the Great Krayt's feet, and the barest edge of Ghomrassen was beginning to peek into the cavern. Little Chenini as always trailed her sisters and was not yet visible.

By the light of the second Sister, he opened his pack and laid out the hilt components he had prepared that evening. Meditation had always been a struggle for him, no matter his affiliation, but now he sank rapidly into the deepest trance he had ever achieved. Through the Force he examined the crystal, seeking not to dominate it and bend it to his will as the Sith did, but only to know it and allow it to become attuned to him. The meditations with the crystal were the most demanding and important element in constructing a lightsaber; most Jedi spent weeks on the process. Anakin had never taken so much time, primarily because he became frustrated with his attempts to meditate and inevitably gave up as soon as the crystal was functional. But on this night, the Force seemed to be waiting for him and dragged him into its depths the moment he opened himself to it. The crystal immediately began to sing in resonance with his own Force signature.

Awed, he examined its structures, seeking the flaws he would have to compensate for as he fashioned the saber. Jedi doctrine taught that all crystals were flawed, though most Jedi sought to use a crystal in which the flaws were minor and only on the molecular level. Part of the craft of building a lightsaber was incorporating those flaws into the design, so that instead of weakening the blade, they became its strength. The Jedi believed this was a perpetual lesson: that one's greatest flaw could become the foundation of one's greatest strength, if only one developed the patience and discipline to rise above it. Anakin had never agreed with that philosophy and had done the bare minimum necessary to cope with the flaws in previous crystals. And he certainly had never made the effort to face his own flaws.

The Sith did not bother attempting to incorporate a crystal's flaws into the design of their weapons. They merely dominated it, forcing it to conform to their wishes, believing that such domination imparted strength to the blade. He wondered distantly if this neglect was what also gave Sith blades their notorious instability and tendency to bleed power. He abandoned the speculation as irrelevant to his current efforts.

The more deeply he examined the crystal, the greater his awe. It was the most perfect crystal he had ever encountered. Nothing was out of place. There were no fractures or weaknesses, even in the molecular structure. Vaguely he wondered what color it would be in good light. He pushed that thought away as well. Perhaps the flaw was so obvious, he had simply overlooked it. He worked his way back out of the crystal, patiently examining each element. But it truly was as perfect as it had seemed at first encounter. Already it was attuned to him and he to it.

Only one step remained. The crystal was floating before him. With care he levitated the components for the hilt and began the assembly process. Once the cradle was ready, he reached for the crystal—and it split in two. So, despite the lack of any structural flaws that would have necessitated a dual crystal mechanism, this would be a dual crystal lightsaber. Good. It would be all the more stable for that. Painstakingly, he reexamined the two crystals. They were still perfect. Even deep in meditation he was aware that he took a deep, bracing breath as he prepared to fit them into their cradle. But before he could slide them into place, the visions began.

* * *

He stood in the desert, alone, with this lightsaber aloft in a position to strike, though there was no visible enemy. The image shifted, and he was surrounded by four cloaked figures also wielding lightsabers. One he was certain was Obi-Wan with his icy blue blade; the others he did not recognize. Each had a blade of a different color—one green, one blue, and the final figure with twin white lightsabers.

_White?_

Before he could consider the anomaly, the vision changed, and he was surrounded by the hiss of a respirator. His body was encased in durasteel and a great weight pressed on his head. He was in a cell with dark walls and bright lights. All was tinted red through his lenses. A girl with brown hair, wearing a flowing white gown, huddled on the bench in front of him. _Leia!_ "And now, Your Highness, we will discuss the location of your hidden Rebel base." Beside him an interrogation droid approached her and injected her with drugs. _No!_ he cried, though he made no sound. He would never interrogate his daughter. Even as Vader, he would not have done that! The images dissolved, and somewhere in the nothingness Padmé panted in pain. "There is still good in him." He strained to see her, to catch one glimpse of her face, but he could not. Then a man's voice intruded. Or a boy? "Because…there is good in him. I've felt it. He won't turn me over to the Emperor."

Immediately he was in the desert again, suitless. Palpatine was there too, malevolent, depraved, a black hole in the Force. Anakin charged at him. The old man sidestepped, drawing a blood-red lightsaber. Anakin tried again, but Sidious parried and struck him down. He lay on the sand, gasping for oxygen that would not come, as the suit assembled around him. _Rise, Lord_ _Vader._ The distorted voice echoed through the blackness that surrounded him. All was red and cold and it hurt. His entire body was burning, and his lungs ached as air was pumped in and out, against his volition, against his wishes. It was too much. It burned! It ached! What was this? He was free of the suit. But somehow it stole away all his will. When the voice commanded again that he rise, he did, though every step pierced him with agony. _Yes, my Master,_ he said.

The desert melted into the black void of space. He was on his knees, his Master howling gleefully above him as the galaxy whirled around them, stars winking out and darkness spreading outward like a cloak. His Master swelled to monstrous proportions. The desiccated flesh seemed to split in two and a great black dragon emerged with a cry of triumph, visible against the inky blackness only because it was darker yet. They were falling through space, accelerating as they plunged toward a point of light. All at once the great dragon was standing on the sands under twin suns and roaring its triumph. It paced in a great circle, staking its claim even to the barren wasteland all around, when from the east appeared another dragon, leaping from dune to dune, approaching with impossible speed. This dragon looked nothing like the other, and with a shock, Anakin realized it was a greater krayt. It was dwarfed by the black dragon looming above it, and the black dragon pounced. But as it fell upon the krayt, she gave a thunderous cry and grew until she was as large as her opponent. They grappled over the desert, dwarfing the bluffs and the dunes. Now one appeared to prevail, now the other.

In an instant the dragons were gone, and he was standing on a bridge over a chasm, battling a young man with a blue lightsaber. The boy's blade struck his shoulder, and his rage fueled a retaliatory strike that removed the boy's sword hand at the wrist. He delighted to the surge of a vicious, grim satisfaction at the boy's cry of despair and agony.

Now he stood in the eye of a sandstorm, free of the suit again. "You shall not pass," he heard himself say. _Snap-hiss_ and a blade the color of the krayt's scales sprouted from his hand. He held it in Soresu guard, though he could see no opponent. Out of the sand emerged other figures until he was in the center of a circle, surrounded by Kenobi, Ahsoka, and Leia; the clones; Kitster and Theec. Even his mother and Padmé were there. A blaster bolt soundlessly erupted from the wall of sand and struck Leia in the shoulder. She fell to her knees. He collapsed beside her, lightsaber forgotten on the sand beside him, feverishly trying to stop the bleeding. "It's not bad," she told him and smiled tightly. The more frantically he treated her wound, the worse it got, and other wounds sprouted all over her body—blaster burns and lightsaber wounds and vibroblade slashes. She began to pant with pain, her Force signature wavering. Over and over she repeated, "It's not bad," smiling at him all the while. He roared with rage when she said, "I swear to respect the natural order of life and death," then went limp as a rag doll.

Another bolt emerged to fell Kitster. Anakin raced to his side, crying, "No, Kit. No!" His friend said, "Will you submit to the will of the desert?"

Before Kitster was cold, Ahsoka collapsed, a lightsaber wound smoking in her gut. "Snips, oh, Snips. You can't die. Please, please, stay with me." She smiled, holding her entrails in with her hands, and gasped, "The will of the Force. Will you obey it, Master?"

He was sobbing and snarling at his impotence when he heard the clank of droids and a hail of blaster bolts cut into Theec. The clones dashed in, firing back, but the barrage mowed them down. Cody choked out, "I swear to defend those who cannot defend themselves," and let out a death rattle.

Why was he always doomed to lose those he loved? Why was it never enough? Why did the universe—the Force—the desert—keep taking away those he needed? "No!" he cried. "I need them. Please—You've taken so much. Please let them live. Take me instead."

Kenobi cried out beside him and collapsed. A red blade wielded by a black-gloved hand had sliced him in half. "There is no death; there is the Force," he sighed and his body disappeared.

In a frenzy of grief he looked around. Only Padmé and his mother were yet unharmed. He raced to them, determined to defend these last two. Shmi touched his elbow. "Ani, my son, my grown up son. Why do you still fight this battle? I have never left you. I am with you still."

Padmé wrapped her arms around his neck, reaching up to kiss him. Before their lips could meet, she said, "Ani, darling Ani, will you do what is right, even when it costs what is most dear?" Tears poured down his face as she began to fade away. "Padmé! Please stay. Please!" Her voice echoed all around him, "Submit, submit, submit."

He collapsed amidst the carnage, rocking back and forth in the depths of his grief. Everyone was always snatched away from him. Every person who mattered.

The sandstorm stopped. Instantly the air was clear and he was alone, though the twin suns and all three moons were shining overhead. He rose unsteadily as a great voice, deeper and more primordial than that of the Great Mother, spoke. It seemed to come from the rocks and the dunes and the sky itself. "Child of the desert," it said, "you have spent your life fighting the natural way of things. The will of your Force. Even the will of those you loved. Why must it always be your will that prevails?"

He had no answer.

"Tell me, son of the suns, do you cause the wind to blow?"

The galaxy itself seemed to pause at the sound of the voice.

"Can you govern the dance of the Three Sisters?" The voice was deeper still.

"Do you know where the dewback hatches its young? Where the water springs up from the depths?"

Anakin still made no answer. Abruptly he was buffeted by the wind. He tried to hold his ground, but it knocked his feet from under him. He could not breathe for the force of the gale. Why was there no sand? He no sooner had the thought than he was engulfed in sand. It tore through him, shredding his clothing, scraping his skin, filling his mouth, clogging his prosthetics. He covered his head with his arms in a vain effort to protect himself. The wind shrieked like a TIE fighter, then died down in an instant.

The air was clear and the suns beat down upon his head. Within moments he was parched, dying of thirst. He flailed, trying to crawl toward water he thought he smelled, but his prosthetics could not bend for the sand in the joints, and his legs could not lift them, they had become so heavy. He fell back to the earth, tongue swelling in his mouth, body temperature rising rapidly. He was helpless. Dying. And he could do nothing to help himself. _Help me,_ he cried out, to whom he did not even know. Perhaps the Great Mother. Perhaps the Three Sisters. Perhaps the desert itself.

The suns winked out, though the Three Sisters continued to shine overhead, centered in the Great Krayt. A spring bubbled up next to his head, and he put his face into the cool water. He had to rinse his mouth three times before it was clear enough for him to drink, and no sensation had ever been as sweet as that first sip of clear water. When he had had his fill, he lay on his back in exhaustion beside the spring, staring at the stars above. But something was wrong. What was it? He watched in concern for some time before he understood: the stars were disappearing, starting at the horizon and working their way inward. At last only the Three Sisters, still within the Great Krayt, and the Great Krayt itself remained.

"Do you see, child of the Sisters? Do you understand? Even stars burn out. Even you. Even these."

And one by one, the seven stars of the Great Krayt disappeared. Then Ghermessa. Then Ghomrassen. And finally little Chenini winked out. The void above was cold and utterly lifeless. There was nothing up there. No worlds. No suns. No people. He alone was left. It ought to have been pitch black, but a sourceless glow penetrated the darkness.

The great voice spoke again. "Yet even if all is dead, you are not alone. You are not forgotten. There is still light. There is still hope. Will you submit to the will of that which guides your life, or will you continue to thrash in the vain attempt to control the fates of those around you?"

Silence fell across the vast vista. The voice was the only thing left to make a sound. Even the water beside him dried up and fell silent. Uncounted eons passed as he lay in the midst of a measureless wasteland under a dead sky. He became aware that tears were falling down his cheeks in an unending stream. Embarrassed, he tried to stop them, but they continued to fall. In the end, he could not bend even his own body to his will. A wracking sob tore from his throat and the dam burst. Ashamed, he rolled onto his side and buried his face in the crook of his elbow like a small child. He never knew how long he wept, but his throat was raw with sobbing and his eyes were scratchy with tears when he finally quieted. He lay in a stupor a long time. Perhaps he even slept.

The first thing he noticed when awareness returned was a Presence. It was warm, like early summer on Naboo, yet the warmth burned, too. It was refreshingly cool like spring water, even as it stung with the chill of desert air in the hour before dawn. It was waiting for him, but he did not want to face it, ashamed by his tears and his lack of control. Ashamed of his fears that had driven him for so long. The Presence lingered around him, suspended in perfect stillness. At last, he realized nothing further would transpire until he acknowledged it. Too weak to rise, he rolled onto his back again, amazed to discover the Great Krayt and the Sisters shining crystal bright against the obsidian sky and the wasteland teeming with life.

"I will submit," he whispered hoarsely.

A wave of approval so ancient it had been old when Tatooine had had water on its surface swept over him. The burden he had carried all his life fell away, leaving freedom and joy in its wake. He bounded to his feet, laughing, while yet more tears ran down his face. He glanced at the ground where rusty, blood-stained chains attached to the collar of a black armorweave cloak lay beside a bubbling spring. Even as he watched, every link shattered, and cloak and chains shriveled into nothingness, leaving a wisp of water vapor that dissipated in the night's chill. He raised his eyes to the moons and stars above, distantly surprised to find that all the other stars had returned to their places too. "I am not worthy. But thank you. I will keep my Oath, though it cost even that which is most precious."

Abruptly the vision cut off, and he sagged forward, drenched with sweat and panting heavily. He could not sustain his trance. As it dissipated around him, he caught a glimpse of Padmé, smiling proudly at him as she never had in life, and her lips formed words. _I love you, Ani_ , he felt but did not hear. The completed hilt of his lightsaber dropped to the floor.

He leaned on his hands for several minutes, head down, disoriented. At last he became aware of his body again and realized his face was wet. Not all of the moisture was sweat. Numbly, he reached for the hilt, anxious the fall had damaged it before it was complete. Even powered down, it hummed in his hand, the crystals within resonating loudly against his Force sense. Wearily, he clambered to his feet; his thighs ached where they connected to the prosthetics. He felt as though he had run the entire Boonta Eve podrace course at high noon and then been trampled by a herd of hungry banthas. Yet his spirit was lighter than he could ever recall before. Faint moonlight poured down on him. Above, the trailing edge of Chenini illuminated the northwestern edge of the great fissure. The conjunction had passed with the visions.


	15. To Thine Own Self Be True

Grasping the new hilt in his right hand, Anakin bowed to the krayt who was resting on the opposite side of the cavern. "Great Mother, it is finished. But there is one last step. I must ignite the blade to fuse the many parts into one whole. The weapon is not complete without this step. Will you trust me not to harm you or your children?"

"You have sworn the Oath of the Krayt. I have no fear."

He twisted the hilt in his hand until the switch was under his thumb. Inhaling deeply, he pressed it. With a familiar _snap-hiss_ , a meter of plasma formed. He had been expecting a typical color—blue or green, perhaps even yellow. But the blade was none of those. It matched the one he had seen in his visions, the blade that was the color of a krayt's scales in the light of the suns. Was it silver shot through with desert green and dusty yellow? Was it the grayed olive of a desert succulent, overlaid with an ocher sheen? He could not decide, but it was glorious. Around him the Force hummed with power and rightness _._ This was the blade he had been born to wield.

"Is it satisfactory?" the krayt asked from the shadows.

Anakin startled. He collected himself, closed down the blade, and bowed respectfully. "It is magnificent."

"Then it is time. You must leave."

He quickly gathered his things, pausing only to drain a water bulb, before he followed her back through the cavern with the nest to a large opening in the cliff face. The sandstorm as well as the Grand Assembly had passed. He prepared to bow once more and set out on the long trudge toward Mos Espa, but she lowered herself to the ground.

"You must mount, Krayt Rider. You are weary and cannot walk swiftly enough." When he did not immediately scramble onto her back, she added, "Time is precious. We must hurry."

He said with awe, "Ride on your back, Great One?"

She shook her head and shoulders almost impatiently. "You have earned the name; now you must ride, _Krayt Rider._ "

Anakin was torn between awe and terror, but he had resolved to submit during his vision. With the barest touch of the Force, he leaped to the top of her shoulder, settling right behind her neck. He was no sooner astride than she bounded lightly across the rocky terrain. He had no idea how much ground she covered with each stride; he only knew that in minutes they were free of the canyons and hurtling across the sands.

He had lost track of time hours ago. His sojourn in the caverns could have lasted weeks or might have been over in the blink of an eye for all the passage of time he had sensed. Above, the Three Sisters had begun their stately retreat from one another against the obsidian void. The air stung his cheeks and lungs, sharpened by the speed of the krayt. He clutched his tattered cloak closed against the chill. The Great Mother leapt over the dunes tirelessly.

Anakin's experience with riding animals was limited to the shaak he had had mounted in an attempt to impress Padmé and the reek they had ridden in desperation at Geonosis. Neither experience had been pleasant or comfortable. Riding the krayt, however, was both. He found himself smiling wistfully at the memory of his inglorious gallop across the meadow at Varykino. He had not smiled at anything connected with Padmé since before Mustafar, but somehow the sting had gone out of his memories. He would regret attacking her forever, yet the knowledge that she had lived to give birth to their daughter—that she had loved him even after his monstrous actions—had provided the balm the festering wound had needed to begin to heal.

Absently, he traced the outlines of the constellation above, lingering on Dan, the star of blessing, which marked the tip of the Great Krayt's tail. A long-forgotten memory stirred. Of telling Padmé one golden afternoon on Coruscant about the strange coincidence he had discovered—that Naboo's sun was called _blessing_ on Tatooine. He had given her quite a ham-handed compliment. Something to the effect that the star wasn't the blessing, she was. She had laughed at him in that affectionate way she had when he was clumsy in his attempts to express his heart. The way that meant she knew he was inept but she loved him for it. He gave his own broken little laugh at the long-repressed memory.

_Blessing_. His fingers brushed the lightsaber at his hip; the crystals hummed with strength in the metal cylinder. His eye fell on the star nearest Dan. Choiala—Justice. And beside it Freedom. Soundlessly, his lips formed the names of the seven stars and without conscious thought, he slipped into a chant his mother had taught him when he was very young.

_The great Boha give me Wisdom to see.  
By the light of Naha-ag, I tell the Truth.  
Mighty Sawanba be my Defender,  
to lead me to Freedom by the guidance of Jedahag,  
to grant me Justice by the power of Choiala.  
May Bapm Bouka guide me to desert springs  
and Dan bless my journey in this world and the next._

His thoughts drifted, a confused jumble of krayts and the Grand Assembly, of blessings and his mother's stories, of the Force and that other unnamable power in his vision. The unexpected discovery of his place and purpose in the galaxy sang in his blood, and under it all ran the inextinguishable longings of a little boy for justice for all he had suffered.

He must have nodded off sometime during the journey because he awakened when the krayt drew to a halt. The Sisters had nearly reached the horizon, and the stars had faded in the glow of sunrise. Swinging his leg over her neck, he slid to the ground. His prosthetics jolted with the impact, and he staggered a few steps. Equilibrium regained, he turned to his benefactor.

"Thank you, Great Mother, for everything. I—I have no words strong enough…"

"It is no matter, Krayt Rider. I know what is in your heart. It is good that you have found your way back to your people and to your calling. May you walk ever in the right, son of the desert. Now go—accomplish that for which you were born—both for your people and for your Force. The strength of the desert will be in your heart, and its lessons will be in your head."

He bowed low and said, "I will remember."

She lowered her head in return. As she gathered her legs for her first leap, her voice echoed around him. Was he hearing with his ears or with some other sense? "When you cannot find your way, remember—the truth will set you free." She bounded over the dune and was gone.

He stared after her for an endless moment, a sharp breeze whipping his cloak about his legs. A sense of unreality enveloped him. Her presence, so real and vital through the night, melted away with the dawn. The sand stretched smoothly ahead of him, devoid of footprints. Had the wind erased them? Or had she been a fantasy?

He wondered absently how far he was from Mos Espa. As he turned back to the west, something brushed his thigh. Gently, he unhooked his new lightsaber from his belt and examined it in the light of the new day. So whatever had happened, it had been real. Perhaps the krayt herself had been some sort of vision, but the lightsaber was very tangible. Still moving slowly, he returned the hilt to his belt and wearily began to climb the dune that lay before him.

The sand slipped as usual under his feet. He drove his feet in for purchase and crested the top, astonished. The krayt had brought him almost to the outskirts of Mos Espa in a matter of hours. And standing on top of the dune was Kitster. Why was he here? What was he doing?

Anakin walked along the crest of the dune, toes splayed outward. At that moment, Tatoo II burst over the horizon, washing out Kitster's face until Anakin was quite close. The man looked like he had been run over by a podracer.

The time for truth had come.

"Hi, Kit," Anakin said softly. "I'm sorry I ran off without seeing you in person."

Kitster merely stared at him.

"Are you all right?" Anakin asked. "You look—unsettled."

The other man shook his head as though to clear it. "You rode a krayt," he said hoarsely, without answering Anakin's question.

Anakin blinked. "Ah—yes. Yes, I did."

"I mean—I know the legends—I've always loved them—and you did call yourself Kraytrider—but I never thought—it's just—legends. It's not real, you know? The name—it was simply a name—it only meant you'd escaped your master…." He trailed off, shaking his head again, this time in bewilderment.

"Kit," said Anakin in a hushed tone, "it was the most real thing that's ever happened to me. She was the most real person I've ever met—far more real than I am." He gazed toward the horizon in the direction the krayt had taken. The dunes blazed gold and black, all blinding glare and sharp shadows. As harsh as the truths he must tell. "And my name—it wasn't real until now. The Great Mother made it real. Before that—it was only a signal to people to leave me alone. To hide my true identity."

He drew a deep breath and met Kitster's eyes. "I have to make a confession. You may be angry with me—and very hurt. I'm sorry. I should have told you long ago—the first day you came into my shop. But I was running away from everything, and I didn't want any reminders of my past. I thought I could just—not get involved." He took another great breath. "But that's not possible anymore. And, anyway, I was always involved. Maybe since before I was born."

Kitster's expression became quizzical. "Err—Kraytrider," he paused a moment, stunned anew by what he had seen. Then he gathered himself and said, "That's quite a claim. I hate to break it to you, brother, but I doubt you're as important as all that. Did you get heatstroke out there?"

Anakin jerked his head in disagreement. "No. Perhaps I'm important. Perhaps I'm not. But _something_ called me out there to meet a Great Mother and to build this." He held up his lightsaber hilt.

Kitster glanced at it indifferently. "What is it? I've never seen anything like it."

"A lightsaber."

"A what?"

"I guess you'd say it's a kind of sword." The words emerged slowly. "The Jedi carried them."

Kit's disbelieving expression was one for the record books. "Right. The Jedi are all dead, in case you hadn't heard."

Anakin winced. "I do know, actually. Perhaps more intimately than any other living person."

"And you're claiming you not only can ride a Great Mother, but now you're a Jedi too?"

"No," he shook his head soberly, "not anymore."

"Not _anymore_?" If Kit's eyebrows rose any higher, they would merge with his scalp. "All right. I don't believe you, but what's your story?"

Anakin looked him squarely in the eye. "I'm Anakin Skywalker. I was a Jedi. Now I'm a—I don't know what. Something. Out there—I made an Oath. She asked me—"

_"Anakin Skywalker!?_ That's impossible. Anakin was freed by the Jedi, it's true, but he died when they were wiped out, like all the others. You're only saying this because I told you about him." The betrayal in his eyes cut straight to Anakin's heart.

"No, Kit." He shook his head. "I really am Anakin. The Jedi freed me and took me to Coruscant. I served as a Jedi for thirteen years." He could see that Kitster still did not believe him. Not surprising, he supposed. Telling the truth was harder than he had thought it would be. He wracked his brain for something to convince his old friend.

"Then tell me what our secret handshake was."

Anakin's lips twitched into a faint almost-smile. "We didn't _have_ a secret handshake, Kit."

There was a pause. "All right. That's true. In that case, tell me something only Ani and I would know. Prove it to me, if you truly are Ani."

Anakin stuck his fingers through his belt. He wanted to pace, but the ground underfoot would not be conducive to a slow, measured stride. Finally he said, "When we were seven, we found a secret cubbyhole in your room. It was carved into the wall under your bed. It wasn't very large, but large enough to keep our treasures safe from our masters. We hid our special toys or other objects we loved in it. We planned to keep my scanner there if I ever got it working. When we were eight—not very long before the Jedi came—we wrote a pact and put it in the hole."

"What did the pact say?" Kitster's face was impassive, but Anakin could sense he yearned to be convinced.

"'Anakin Skywalker and Kitster Banai swear eternal brotherhood by the desert, the Two Brothers, and the Three Sisters.' We marked it with our blood by the light of Ghermessa and Ghomrassen—Chenini not then being available to witness our vow," he added drily.

He nearly toppled in surprise when Kitster threw his arms around him. "Ani! Oh, Ani! I'm so glad you're alive."

Anakin stood woodenly for a moment, then awkwardly lifted his arms in return. "Kit." His vision was unexpectedly blurry. "It's good to see you, Kit. And I'm sorry. I should have told you the day you came to the shop."

Kitster released him. "Why didn't you?" A single glistening track traced its way down his cheek.

Anakin's arms dropped back to his side, and he turned back toward the sunrise, though he kept his eyes on his feet. "Oh, it's all very complicated, but I guess it boils down to—I forgot who I was. For a long, long time. And when I fled my master, I was so sick of it all. Destiny and prophecies and everyone's unmet expectations. Everyone expected me to do great things. And I was nothing but a scared kid—scared of losing the people I loved, scared of failing, scared of what I was supposed to do…."

"I didn't understand any of that. But what kind of burden is that for a kid?"

"None at all." Anakin stared at the slope of sand that dropped away below his boots. "I never was able to live up to their expectations."

Kit was silent for a time as the edge of Tatoo I crept over the horizon. "So why are you telling me now?" he asked at last.

"It's hard to explain—and a lot I can't tell you." Anakin fidgeted with his belt for a moment. "But I have one other confession to make. You might hate me after you hear it. But you need to know because it's going to come out today." He braced his feet, drew his shoulders back, and looked directly at Kitster. "For personal reasons that I am not going to share, I submitted myself to the Emperor. He offered me something I was desperate to have at the price that I become his servant. He lied—he never intended to give it to me—but by then it was too late. I had destroyed everything—or believed I had. And so I served him for sixteen years until I discovered his treachery. I didn't think I could defeat him, but I determined never to serve him again. So I left and hid here. But now I know that something—someone—survived. And she will not be safe as long as he lives. So I am going to destroy him."

Kitster's expression could not have been more stunned if he had been bisected by a lightsaber. "The _Emperor_? He was your master?"

Anakin nodded.

"You—You weren't—" Kit wet his lips stiffly. "You couldn't have been—"

Anakin forced himself not to look away. "I'm sorry. It's true."

"But…but…your mother…"

"Yes, my mother would be so ashamed and horrified. I was a slave. But I became a slaver, too. Worse even than the Hutts. Oh, it was all at the command—or at least the permission—of my master. But, yes, I was pleased to see others as miserable as myself."

Kit spun around, unable to look him in the face any longer. Anakin was silent. He must make his own determination. It seemed an eternity before his voice drifted faintly over his shoulder. "Are you—sorry?"

"Yes." The words were little more than a breath. "I must tell you the truth. I was not sorry when I came to Mos Espa. I only wanted to escape him. But now…Yes. I am very sorry. And I am going to make it right."

"How?"

"Well, to begin with, we will free Tatooine's slaves today. And then I will destroy Palpatine and everything he ever built."

"That will not change what you did." Kit's voice quavered.

"No. It will not. I cannot change any of it. I can only attempt to repair what I have broken."

Slowly, Kitster turned back with a weak but genuine smile. "You always were good at fixing things." He drew a deep breath and stuck out his hand. "Let's free some slaves, shall we?— _brother._ "

Misty-eyed again, Anakin grasped his friend's hand. "Maybe we should invent a secret handshake," he said unsteadily and was pleased when Kit laughed.


	16. Of a Good Beginning. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next five chapters weren't included in the initial draft for Krayt's Oath; the revolution was originally a relatively minor event in the overall story, but you all were so excited about it that I decided to see if I could write a oneshot covering the clones' assassination of Jabba.
> 
> So...
> 
> Four months, five drafts, and twenty thousand words later, have a not-so-minor assassination. A warning, though: Jabba is, well, Jabba. He's venal, corrupt, exploitative. In a word—evil. I made every effort to handle the situations that developed with good taste and dignity, but the subject matter is grim. On the bright side, we also have the clones being awesome. Enjoy!

Dash, simply dressed in a spacer's shirt and trousers with a full utility belt at his waist and plain black leather gloves on his hands, pulled his shoulders back and nodded in response to Hex's questioning glance. The other man pressed the bell beside the imposing main gate to Jabba's fortress. He cut an arresting figure in a black civilian bodysuit with pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets from his GAR armor, blasters holstered at his hips. He kept his salt and pepper hair military regulation length and looked like exactly what he was—a retired veteran accustomed to walking through any situation with competence and aplomb.

Zero hour. Time to see if Kraytrider's rumor campaign had softened up the target adequately.

An eyeball droid popped out of an aperture and chattered in Huttese.

"I'm here to see Jabba," Hex said loudly in Standard. "I can help with his little security problem."

The eyeball droid withdrew and there was a nerve-wracking pause. The rumors had been swirling for weeks that something big would go down on Boonta Eve. Something to do with Jabba. Exactly what the threat was remained unclear. Maybe a slave uprising. Maybe a kidnapping attempt on Jabba's son. Maybe an assassination by a rival crime lord.

Kraytrider had a source inside Jabba's organization that had reported he was increasingly paranoid, sending his son off-world, restricting the purchase of new slaves, and tightening security at the entrances to his fortress. Dash and Chatter had even overheard a pair of Dresselians discussing a rumor that no slaves would serve aboard his sail barge on the voyage to Mos Espa for the Boonta Eve podrace. Reportedly, Jabba was in a rage at the necessity of relying on droids for service during the annual bacchanalia.

To add to the Hutt's fury, two vats of water—a resource guarded even more closely than credits at Jabba's palace—had been stolen last week from his storehouse. A notable feat for whoever had pulled it off. Kraytrider and his gang probably knew something about the theft, but it was none of Dash's business. The most recent incursion two days ago must have added insult to injury. According to Kraytrider's source, Jabba had been apoplectic when his major domo reported that his favorite slave dancer had escaped.

The gate began to rise with a clang. A pink-skinned Twi'lek stood in the shadows within. Bowing, he beckoned to them to follow him. As they traversed the massive, dim hallway lined with Gamorrean guards, Dash couldn't shake the impression that they were a pair of idiotic insects willingly entering the web of some bloated, rapacious arachnid. He pushed the uneasy thought to the back of his mind.

They followed the Twi'lek into a large room that stank of clouds of spice, stale perspiration from a dozen species, and some other repellent damp musk. Dash nearly gagged. The din of the band was almost drowned out by the raucous crowd. Alcoves on the far side of the room housed various refreshments, including openly displayed spice hookahs. Guards stood watch at the various doors, but Jabba was evidently a tolerant host as everyone was carrying a weapon or three. With an effort, Dash restrained himself from brushing his own blaster in its holster. Better not to give any appearance of being a threat right now.

The Twi'lek said something in Huttese to the bulbous, slug-like figure on the dais to the right of the stairs. Jabba laughed and replied. Dash, whose attention had been caught by the dancers in appallingly scanty attire gyrating in the middle of the room, wrenched his eyes back to Jabba. He had to fight to keep his expression from displaying his fury and horror.

"The great Jabba will hear you now," the Twi'lek said in heavily accented Standard.

Hex stepped forward boldly. "I hear you have some security concerns, Jabba, and I have a solution for you."

Jabba rumbled something and a battered silver protocol droid shuffled up to translate. "The mighty Jabba has no security concerns he cannot handle himself. He hardly needs a pair of mere clones to advise him."

Hex nodded. "Maybe so. But if you'll allow me to explain what my company offers, I think you'll agree that we can plug the holes in your security arrangements more efficiently and thoroughly than you can yourself. This palace is old. You've been here a long time. You're comfortable. The dangers are familiar. But no one can be vigilant all the time. Maybe your staff has gotten a little complacent. The galaxy has changed. New threats have emerged. Everyone needs to reevaluate their security situation every now and then, whether they have a small family dwelling or a sprawling palace."

He gestured to Dash. "We are GAR/IMP Security. You recognized us for what we are—clones who served both the Republic and the Empire. We can bring all that expertise to identify your security risks and design solutions to address them. We've got hundreds of satisfied clients from the past twelve years, and you won't find a more qualified consultant group to conduct an audit for you." Hex winked. "And it's all perfectly legal. While we understand that isn't your top concern, who wants to risk attracting Imperial attention unnecessarily? All of our solutions are guaranteed to comply with Imperial laws and regulations while also conforming to the highest industry standards."

Kraytrider had initially intended for the clones to infiltrate the palace by stealth but had adjusted his plans without complaint when Hex and Scratch proposed using a security audit as a cover. The plan they had come up with was audacious but might succeed exactly because it was so outrageous.

Jabba's laugh boomed out. The sand-scoured translator said in its absurdly prissy voice, "His Excellency says you are bold, Master Clone. And saucy. He invites you to convince him he should hire you for this security audit."

"I shouldn't need to convince you. Mos Eisley and Mos Espa ring with reports that you've suffered a number of thefts recently—with no trace of the thieves." He shrugged. "Rumors are rumors, but scuttlebutt has it that something big is coming down Boonta Eve. You want to be prepared no matter what it is. If it's an attack on the palace, we can plug your security holes and provide patrol droids. If it's a kidnapping, we can keep the kidnappers out. If it's an assassination, we've got droidekas to serve as bodyguards."

"You have told the invincible Hutt that your solutions are legal," the droid translated. "Droidekas have been illegal for over fifteen years."

"Wrong." Hex's voice rang with triumph. "Droideka _programming_ is illegal. But the chassis is just a chassis. We've created software that leverages the unique features of droidekas—the weaponry, the shields, the mobility—and joined it to the extra failsafes provided by a central control brain. They're modified so their primary mode of locomotion is walking rather than rolling to turn them into top-of-the-line bodyguards. They can run patrols, stand sentry, guard prisoners. We even have a hybrid model that can do double duty in service and security when space is limited. Naturally our droids lack the bits of programming that made them particularly deadly to Jedi during the war—the Empire outlawed countermeasures for lightsabers once the Jedi were exterminated—but that's hardly a concern for you, is it?"

Jabba tried to interrupt, but Hex began to stride back and forth, sales pitch in full swing. "If our droideka models are too expensive, we also sell squads of B-1 and B-2 battle droids which we customize to suit each client's particular requirements. Even a palace as large as this won't need more than a hundred droids at most.

"I guarantee that when we're finished, your fortress will be impregnable and unassailable by anything less than the Imperial navy. The only safer location in the galaxy will be the Emperor's palace."

He held out a datapad to the Twi'lek. "Our credentials. Including GAR/IMP Security's legal documents, properly witnessed and filed according to Lantillian law. Also, testimonials from satisfied clients, some of whose names you may recognize. We've provided personal security audits for nobles, celebrities, even a few moffs, as well as for corporations throughout the Mid-Rim and Inner Rim."

Jabba laughed. "The powerful Jabba says you really are brazen, Master Clone. You are just his kind of inventive rascal. It is true that the palace has had some trouble with thieves lately. While his Splendor is entirely capable of tightening his own security, you have made a reasonable case that outsiders might do a better job. Jabba wishes to inform you that you are hired. But—" Jabba lifted an absurdly small arm as they droid spoke "—if you should fail to deliver satisfactory service or if you should take advantage of the access you will have—you will be dealt with permanently."

Hex smiled and nodded. "We understand. We've never had a breach in confidentiality or ethics in the history of our company. We guarantee your satisfaction."

Upon Jabba's dismissal, the Twi'lek escorted them back to their speeder at the palace entrance, where he gave them directions to the landing bay. The portcullis dropped with an ominously final clang.

Dash slumped in the passenger seat. " _Wayii!_ That was nerve-wracking. I gotta admit I didn't have much faith in your plan."

Hex chuffed something between a laugh and a groan. "Want to know something? I had my doubts too, in spite of Kraytrider's rumor campaign." He straightened and started the engine. "One thing I've learned in my business, though—confidence is half the game. The other half is scaring the clients. I'm not sure how scared Jabba is, but he's letting us in, which is the important thing."

"At least we won't have to make everything up as we go now." Dash tugged at the unaccustomed gloves. "So—your plan. Have you ever actually rigged a droideka's shields to blow?—or is it just theoretical?"

"Oh, I've done it. Only as a trial, though. I experimented some with droideka spare parts during the war but didn't get to really test the idea until I started buying decommissioned droids after I retired. Clients don't want their droids to explode, of course—I've kept that information under my bucket—but I've always wanted to try it." He grinned. "Scratch hates the idea—thinks it's ridiculously showy and wasteful—but in this case it's exactly what we need. All I have to do is convince Jabba he needs a few modified droidekas on his barge."

"You think he'll really buy some?"

"I'll do whatever it takes—give a steep discount, a five year warranty, a money-back guarantee. Even offer a free trial. It's better than trying to smuggle in bombs."

"But you've got bombs in your cases."

Hex shrugged. "They're not a big deal. Most standard scanners can't pick them up through the lead lining. It's the big ones that are hard to smuggle."

They had reached the ledge of rock that functioned as a landing pad outside the palace's landing bay. A pair of guards inspected their vehicle and supplies. Dash held his breath as they examined Hex's case, but the scanners didn't so much as twitch. Gigantic doors slid slowly open and the bay's energy shield was deactivated as they were waved through.

The _Khetanna_ lay ahead of them, suspended in the center of the bay. Hex drove as slowly as he dared so they could study the layout. The barge was currently inaccessible, suspended by heavy cables in the center of the bay. There must be a loading ramp that granted access, but neither man could spot it.

Per Kraytrider's original plan, Theec, who had apparently worked at the palace at some time in the past, had led Dash into the complex two weeks earlier to gather intelligence for planning this operation. It had been a strange collaboration through the language barrier, but Theec had proven a competent guide. Unfortunately, the landing bay had been too well-secured for them to risk accessing it. Studying their target now, Dash was grateful that Hex's modifications to the plan meant they would probably have authorized access to the barge. Although all systems had weaknesses, the combination of the physical security of the bay itself and the inaccessibility of the barge would make a covert effort challenging.

In the planning meetings, Dash had questioned whether destroying the barge was the best way to assassinate Jabba. After all, he and Hex could have chucked a thermal detonator at him an hour ago. Kraytrider had been adamant, however, that the objective was not only Jabba but also his lieutenants. Since the one time each year they all gathered in the same place was the voyage to the race, that presented the most logical opportunity to destroy them all with minimal collateral damage.

In the end, the clones had agreed to Kraytrider's demands. He was, after all, paying their commissions. The man himself puzzled Dash, who still hadn't figured out what united Kraytrider—a man with a commanding presence despite his severely scarred face and occasionally awkward movements—and the unassuming shopkeeper Kitster Banai. Banai and his wife had an air of assurance—most of the time—but nothing like the effortless, unspoken authority that rested on Kraytrider's shoulders.

Dash was Intel. The longnecks had selected him for undercover work in part because of his natural observational skills. His life and those of his squad had not infrequently rested on his awareness of subtle incongruities. Something about Kraytrider didn't fit. Dash couldn't judge the quality of his Huttese, but his Standard was oddly formal and stilted for a junkshop owner. His Outer Rim twang mixed strangely with the clipped cadence of the Core. His business appeared to be prosperous—but it was only a junk shop. Hardly the sort of establishment to generate the financial resources the man had at his fingertips. In addition to the sum he had promised each clone for their services, he had funded all the equipment they requested without objection.

The most obvious answer was that Kraytrider's funds were obtained outside the law, but somehow that explanation didn't seem to fit either. He gave no sign of conducting illegal activity, nor did he have the air of the smugglers and pirates Dash had encountered during the war.

In an absolute sense, Kraytrider's contradictions were none of Dash's business—thus far none of the irregularities in his employer's character indicated he was a danger to the clones. Yet Dash could not release his curiosity.

Hex pulled the speeder into an empty space, and with the experience of years of Intelligence work, Dash set aside his thoughts. Right now it was time to focus on the job. It was only three days until Boonta Eve and this operation would require all his concentration.

* * *

Hex shouldered his equipment cases and slammed the speeder's trunk. Trailing Dash by a step, he followed the guard that had been assigned to them. Time to create a pretext to prod Jabba into ordering some droids. He made no attempt to conceal his examination of the landing bay—he had all the warrant he needed to poke his nose into every nook and cranny. He spotted a console installed near the bay's interior exit. _Perfect!_ He wanted to grin in satisfaction, but instead he turned to Dash. "Oh, this is a problem."

A flash of panic crossed the other man's clean-shaven face, though it was gone almost before it fully registered.

Hex pointed toward the console. "It's just out in the middle of the floor—no security whatsoever. Hey," he said peremptorily to the guard, "what kind of login procedure is there to access that console?"

The guard looked blank and said something in Huttese.

Hex waved dismissively, set his cases on the floor, and began poking at the screen. He pasted an absorbed expression on his face while ignoring the guard's broken protests.

"No. No—this for guards. Guards only."

Hex made a show of bending down to look under the console and walked around it, shaking his head in dismay. The guard followed him, nudging him with his spear's shaft. Hex ignored him for several seconds, then finally turned with an urgent expression. "I've gotta talk to Jabba about this. Right away."

The guard said something in Huttese and pointed toward the door.

"Jabba," Hex repeated. "You take me to Jabba."

The guard's response was incomprehensible, but Hex thought he might have said _Jabba_. He nodded and picked up his cases. Dash looked confused. Hex caught his eye and winked slowly. _I have a plan,_ he signed with the old GAR signal. Dash blinked, then nodded infinitesimally.

The guard led them up through a labyrinth of passages. Some were natural, others had been cut through the cliff so long ago they almost looked natural. Studying them with an eye to demolition, Hex better understood Kraytrider's concern that an attack on Jabba at the complex would lead to a bloodbath. With all the intersecting corridors, the guerrilla warfare would be drawn out, vicious, and bloody.

They reached a corridor lined with doors in varying states of dilapidation. The guard pressed a panel on one in slightly better repair, and it jerked open with a mild groan. Inside, a pair of lumpy beds stood on opposite walls. Other than a battered chair and table, there was no furniture. The guard did not attempt to say anything, but it was clear this was their quarters. The clones set their equipment down, then Hex said to the guard, "Jabba. I need to see Jabba." He pointed back into the hallway and stepped beyond the guard. "Jabba?"

The guard merely shook his head, so Hex turned left. The guard protested. When Hex did not return to the room, the guard pursued him. "Jabba!" Hex said. The guard waved his spear in the other direction. It was astounding. What kept Jabba's goons in line when his guards were only armed with spears and axes? Hex followed him past their room, gesturing to Dash to join them.

The journey back to the throne room took almost ten minutes, and when they arrived, the party was even more raucous than it had been earlier. The guard signaled to the Twi'lek. Hex started insisting loudly, "I need to speak with Jabba. It's urgent."

After several minutes of unfruitful arguing back and forth, the Twi'lek led them toward Jabba's throne. Hex jumped in before the Hutt could say anything. "You've got a big problem in the landing bay. I didn't realize it would be so lax." He waved a hand. "Sure, it's pretty secure from your slaves. Probably. But those terminals are open to anyone. What were your tech people thinking? And the tech. How old is it? It looks positively ancient. Listen—I was planning to start with your comms—they're usually an overlooked weakness—but I'm gonna have to start with your landing bay. Boonta Eve's in what?—three days?" Hex shook his head mournfully. "Judging from the physical security I could see, you're gonna need a lotta work before you go to that race. If you insist on going. Really, your wisest option is to stay here."

Jabba rumbled something unhappy, but before the droid could translate, Hex interrupted, "I get it—it's your thing. But how important is it for you to be there really? Couldn't you—I dunno—send somebody to represent you? I mean—everybody on the planet's heard _something's_ going down that day. Nobody'd blame you for keeping away."

Hex finally paused and Jabba seized the opportunity. This time Hex waited for the droid to translate. "The fearless Jabba says he is not a coward. He will go to the race and prove he is not afraid."

Hex shrugged. "All right; I can't stop you. But if you're gonna do it, you'd better let me deal with the ship and the landing bay security tomorrow." He added as an afterthought, "And I'd give some serious thought to our hybrid droidekas if I was in your shoes. I wouldn't take any chances with either slaves or guards. The more people you've got on that barge, the higher the chances a saboteur or assassin will slip past. We'll go get some rest, but think about it. Your butler here can tell us your answer in the morning."

Hex didn't wait to be dismissed; he turned toward the exit and their guide. Jabba's voice arrested him, though he again had to wait for the translation. When it came, it was as satisfactory as Hex could have hoped. "Great Jabba says you must see to the security arrangements tomorrow. Determine how many droidekas are needed to staff the barge and order them."

Hex half-bowed to conceal the smile that twitched the corner of his lips. "We'll take care of it first thing. The timing's tight, but I've got a warehouse on Herdessa. If I get that order sent in by noon tomorrow, the droids should be here in time. Good night."

Jabba rumbled something, waving his hands. "His Eminence says it's early. He tells his people, 'never miss a party.'"

Hex glanced around tolerantly. "It's not really our venue. We're here in a professional capacity. If you'll excuse us…"

"The genial Jabba insists. His generosity is galaxy-renowned. He wishes to provide you with any entertainment you wish—spice, food, slaves…"

Hex shook his head. "It's not necessary. We wouldn't want to—er—deprive someone else."

"His Eminence demands your indulgence of his abundant liberality. He wishes to seal your bargain through his bountiful hospitality."

Hex glanced surreptitiously to the side. Three Gamorreans blocked the staircase they had entered by. Their escort was standing directly behind them. Bowing to necessity, he nodded slightly in Jabba's direction. "Okay. Thanks. We'll, uh, take some food."

The Twi'lek, grinning, appeared at his elbow again. The man's pointed teeth were disconcerting and rendered his expression predatory rather than welcoming. Dash caught Hex's eye and tipped his head fractionally. Hex nodded in reply. The Twi'lek led them to an alcove and pointed to one of the tables. "For humans." He flashed his rapacious grin once again and left them to their own devices.

"Do you think it's safe?" Dash asked under cover of the noise.

Hex shrugged. Given the prevalence of spice and alcohol, it wasn't out of the question that the food could be spiked. Though he was hungry, he decided not to risk it. They leaned against the wall outside the alcove and watched the throng.

The crowd gyrated to an upbeat dance number as a Twi'lek, a Pantoran, and a Togruta performed before Jabba. The collars and chains left no doubt as to their status. Hex caught himself staring as the Togruta and the Twi'lek tossed the blue-skinned Pantoran in a series of acrobatic flips that were both astounding and suggestive. He tore his eyes away, but despite his best efforts, he repeatedly found them straying toward the dancers. The dance was provocative in all the worst ways, and Hex cursed his eyes for their seeming inability to refrain from looking.

He angled away from the center of the room, forcing his attention to a survey of the rest of the crowd. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Dash jerk his head down to stare at his feet. Hex counted guards doggedly, tracking weapons as well. Jabba seemed to have a preference for old-fashioned weaponry. Not a single guard was carrying an energy weapon of any kind. With an effort, he made himself consider the room from a professional standpoint, logging exits, weak points, and potential threats, all the while striving not to catch even a glimpse of the simultaneously riveting and repellent display in the center of the room.

Time dragged. How long until Jabba would release them?

Hex's knees were beginning to complain when a voice, familiar even through a helmet's distortion, said, "It is unwise to refuse the Hutt's hospitality so openly."

They looked to their right to see a man in battered gray and green armor.

Hex had never met their template's "son," though he knew him by reputation, of course. The price Jango had demanded—and received—for providing the genetic template for an entire army had been an open—and envied—secret among the GAR. Not that anyone admitted to wishing for parents. The longnecks quashed all such talk among the _verd'ika_ early. They were a product. A genetically manipulated commodity. Someone needed an army and an army had been created. Human longings had no bearing on the matter.

Every resource necessary to bring them to maturity had been provided. Food. Clothing. Training. It was well-established fact that human emotional development depended upon social integration, but batch groups could meet the need adequately. Parents were not essential, so parents had not been provided. Yet every clone had known that there was one of their number that had not been manipulated. That was being raised as a son.

Nonetheless, Hex felt an unexpected surge of kinship when Boba accosted them. If there were one being in the galaxy who could understand something of what the clones' lives were like, it was Boba.

"Thanks, _vod_ ," Dash said with asperity. "We'll keep it in mind."

"You're no _vod_ of mine," sneered Boba. "He was my _buir_ ; he was just your _donor_."

In spite of himself, Hex flinched.

"Maybe so," said Dash, "but then, that leaves you _dar'aliit_."

"No need to be rude." This was why Hex was reluctant to work with people—even brothers—he didn't know. Scratch wouldn't have provoked Boba like that.

"I don't know what your game is, _clones_ , but don't think the Hutt is fooled. Whatever your scheme, it will fail if you give him such obvious reason for suspicion. You've stuck your heads in the rancor's mouth, and you'll have to be careful if you don't want them bitten off. Your purposes would be better served if you accepted some piece of Jabba's hospitality graciously—and were seen to do so."

"I don't trust anything in this pit," Dash said. "And if we aren't _vod'e_ , why bother to offer us advice?"

"Think of it as a memorial to my _buir_ , since you carry his genes—a one-time gesture of good will. Make no mistake, a misstep here will fatal. Jabba isn't nearly as taken in as he appears. He hasn't survived so many centuries by being anything less than shrewd and ruthless. If he's going along with your little charade, it's to find out what you're up to and who else is in on it."

"I'll keep it in mind," said Dash. "You've done your _riye_ for the day. Feel free to get on with whatever it is you do here."

"You would do better to watch your tongue and not insult those who offer you a good turn." Boba's voice was cold.

"Thanks, but I don't feel obliged to a gene-brother who denies family ties."

Hex elbowed Dash sharply. "I think it's best if we drop this subject. We'll take your suggestion under advisement."

Boba turned away, then paused. "You needn't fear the food, as long as you stick to the items intended for human consumption. Drugs are too easily available here for anyone to bother spiking the victuals." He stalked away to take up a station next to the main stairs.

Hex shrugged. "Do you think we can trust what he said?"

" _Aliit ori'shya tal'din_ ," Dash muttered. "And he's refused any family relationship. You ask me, he's _dar'manda_."

"But he did offer good will. Come on—let's eat something. It won't hurt our cause to look like we're agreeable guests." He led the way to the tables laid out in one of the central alcoves.

They lingered at the party for more than two hours before slipping out the side stairs. They had reached the corridor that ran beneath the throne room when the Twi'lek hurried up to them, speaking rapidly but mostly incomprehensibly.

Hex gambled on the substance of his query. "We're tired and we've got work tomorrow. We've been traveling all day and want to rest."

The Twi'lek nodded and summoned a guard, who led them through the warren back to their quarters. Hex was a little disappointed they had been prevented from exploring the palace on their own, but set it aside. They didn't speak until after the guard had left.

Dash said, "You're very demanding to Jabba."

Hex glanced at a speaker on the wall. He couldn't see any sign of bugs in the room, but it would be easy to disguise one in the intercom system. He shook his head and signaled, _Not here._ He made as much noise as he could opening his gear and double-checking his tools. Under cover of the clatter he said softly in Mando'a, "Bullies respect people who aren't cowed by them. Jabba's the biggest bully I've ever met. So—there you go." He switched to Standard and raised his voice. "Hmmm. I think I have what I'll need for the bay. I wasn't expecting to have to check the tech, too, though. I thought someone as rich as Jabba would have top-of-the-line tech. Your equipment all set?"

He gestured at Dash to answer in the affirmative and they staged a brief discussion about the next day's work before retiring. As he settled down for sleep, Hex was pleased to have met the day's objectives. His last thought was to wonder whether Jabba had really bought their charade.

* * *

Mando'a vocabulary:

 _verd'ika_ [vair-DEE-kah] – little warriors (literally the littlest clones)  
_riye_ [ree-YAY] – favor, good turn  
_vod_ [vohd] – brother, comrade, mate  
_buir_ [boo-EER] – father  
_dar'aliit_ [dar-ah-LEET] – no longer family  
_Aliit ori'shya tal'din_ [ah-LEET or-EESH-yah tahl-DEEN] – Family is more than blood (saying)  
_dar'manda_ [dar-MAHN-dah] – no longer Mandalorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that Krayt's Oath is now a series. I will occasionally add additional oneshots, deleted scenes, and such. If that sort of thing appeals to you, you may want to follow it directly since I will not generally announce new additions here in the main story. 
> 
> First up, by popular demand: Artoo chews out Vader. :D


	17. Closer Than a Brother

At midday Chatter squatted next to his comms equipment, crushing back his anxiety over Dash's safety for the hundredth time. He hadn't received an emergency comm requesting extraction the previous night, and his equipment had lit up at midmorning with a signal from the diverter Dash had been assigned to wire into Jabba's comms tower. Hopefully, that meant all was well. Hex's assurances about his plan aside, Chatter would be a lot more comfortable if Dash had an active comm in his ear.

The regular ping of the diverter was interrupted by the chime of an incoming signal. Chatter sighed with relief and punched the button to accept the comm. Commander Cody, studying a datapad at the rear of this tiny cave, got up to listen to the message.

"Hey. This is Dash."

"Yup. What can I do for you?" The scripted words were too casual for Chatter's actual feelings, but he forced himself to keep his voice neutral in case there were suspicious ears listening.

"Good news. Jabba wants to use hybrids on his sail barge. Hex says we'll start with five. Only catch is we need them by 1200 tomorrow."

"1200? Ooch—Lemme see…" Chatter counted off eleven seconds to feign checking travel times and inventory lists. "Tch. It's gonna be tight, but I think we can do it. Looks like Scratch is free. I'll keep you updated if anything comes up that'll affect that delivery time. Anything else?"

"Nope. Not now. Just—Hex says we gotta have those droids no later than noon."

"I'll do what I can. Good luck, _vod_."

The signal cut off, and Chatter forced his tense muscles to relax as he ran the next call through the diverter. He still didn't like having Dash in that fortress with no active comms, but he forced his anxiety into a corner of his mind. Dash's call was supposed to have gone to GAR/IMP's headquarters on Lantillies. Although it was unlikely Jabba's people were monitoring the signal closely enough to discover the ruse, disguising this call in the midst of the traffic going in and out of Jabba's network lowered the odds that much more. Of course, the fact that Chatter enjoyed playing around with fancy equipment was just icing on the cake. After all, he needed to test the diverter before he broadcast Kraytrider's message on Boonta Eve, didn't he? With a click, his signal connected.

"Scratch here."

"It's Chatter. The guys want five hybrids."

"Okay. I'll start getting that loaded."

"Deadline is 1200 local tomorrow."

"What!" Scratch's imitation of someone spit-spraying caf was spot on. Chatter wondered if he was in public where his performance could be appreciated.

"Sorry. I'm just the messenger. That's what they said."

"I'd better get busy then. There's a lot to do." Scratch cut the connection and Chatter returned his equipment to standby. The regular ping of the diverter resumed. Without a word, Commander Cody returned to his datapad.

The afternoon passed slowly. The heat rose, but they had selected their perch for the consistent shade it would provide. They didn't talk. Chatter was taciturn at the best of times, and his anxiety over Dash's situation only exacerbated this tendency. He had never met Commander Cody before this mission and was intimidated both by the man's legend and by the gulf between a marshal commander and a corporal. Though the commander did not carry himself arrogantly, somehow Chatter couldn't forget that this man had served directly under High General Kenobi. Had commanded thirty-six thousand men at the height of the war. Had _planned_ the battles Chatter had fought in. And then had served as Lord Vader's hand-picked commander for his personal stormtrooper legion. Chatter had never met Lord Vader and was grateful for the fact; the commander had served directly under him for five years and survived.

Of course, the deeper reason for his discomfort was rooted in the day no clone talked about. Chatter was grateful that when the compulsion had overcome him, he had been one of a mass of hundreds of troopers. He had no idea whether it was his shot that had brought down his general, and though it was shameful, he was relieved not to have to carry that burden. The guilt he carried already was bad enough. Not like Commander Cody.

To Chatter's admittedly limited knowledge, Cody had never discussed Order 66 with anyone, but every clone knew that Cody himself had directed the shot that had taken out General Kenobi. Cody's partnership with his general had been legendary across the GAR. Almost as legendary as the partnership between Kenobi and Skywalker. Perhaps more so, because it had reached across the vast divide between clone and Jedi.

General Skywalker's friendship with Captain Rex had been legendary too, but it had seemed less extraordinary. General Kenobi had, by reputation anyway, been far more reserved than his flamboyant student. A brilliant commander and always just and fair, he had inspired undying loyalty, at least until the blasted chips had interfered. Tragic as it had been, Skywalker and Kenobi had died, if not together, nonetheless united in a common cause and as unwitting victims of their men's compulsion. Commander Cody, by contrast, had turned from a comrade in arms to a deadly enemy in the blink of an eye and through no choice of his own.

Though it was an experience all the clones shared to varying degrees, Cody's situation was particularly devastating. Some days Chatter wished the Empire hadn't removed the chips before retiring them. The unthinking loyalty to the Emperor and the numb imperviousness to grief had, in many ways, been easier to bear than the truth, even if it had been accompanied by a freedom they had never known. Commander Cody's stoic acceptance of what the chip had made him do had helped every surviving clone to bear his own guilt.

Chatter spent the afternoon setting up a permanent back door into Jabba's communications system. The diverter provided a two-way street for comms and Chatter took full advantage. He had developed a habit during the war of installing permanent access for any comms system he touched. He'd had one too many experiences in his first year of active duty when he needed to get back into a system in a hurry and couldn't. His employer, the major communications provider in the Denon sector, probably wouldn't be happy to learn of his little habit, but he was good at covering his tracks and his encryptions were top notch.

The suns dropped beyond the lip of the canyon walls. Commander Cody set up the camp stove and began to prepare their rations as Chatter ran a final diagnostic of his equipment.

Later, over supper, the commander said, "You and Dash seem to know each other well. Did you serve together in the war?"

"We're batchmates. He was Intel; I was with comms support for the unit. Most of our batch were killed in the war, but five of us banded together after we retired."

"You're fortunate. It's rare to have so many batchers still alive."

"It's just me and Dash now, sir. A couple died in the epidemics. One had a tumor."

Their manipulated genome had left them vulnerable to viruses that barely affected the natborns around them and many of the _vod'e_ had succumbed. All clones knew the grim projections: The medics predicted that the strongest and most resilient of them might last another fifteen years. A few outliers might make it twenty. But in two decades, the last remnants of the Grand Army of the Republic would be gone.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Chatter swallowed his stew and said matter-of-factly, "We've made it to thirty standard. We already beat the odds. Don't see much point moaning and groaning over what can't be helped."

"That's an admirable attitude." The commander smiled. "What do you do when you aren't assassinating Hutts?"

Chatter chuckled dutifully at the witticism. "I work in the information security section of a communications company. Dash does hardware development and implementation." Then, in a fit of daring he could hardly believe, he asked, "What about you, sir?"

Commander Cody smiled wistfully. "I live a pretty quiet life. I guess that's why I signed up for this mission. One last hurrah. Nobody really wants an ex-marshal commander on their payroll."

"You live on Berchest, right?"

He nodded. "It's one of the larger clone settlements."

"Do you have any batch brothers left?" Chatter ducked his head. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have asked such a personal question."

"No. It's fine. I don't." His smile was small. "They were other commanders and officers. Somehow they got whittled down over the years. I don't know for sure about Wolffe, but I believe he's dead. He was the last one."

Chatter's heart clenched. It was what he dreaded most—being the last. Being all alone. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to—"

Commander Cody shook his head. "No worries, Trooper. The last of them died several years ago. I'm not facing anything the rest of us aren't."

Chatter's answering smile was weak but genuine. "Do you have other family, sir?"

"No. Never felt like I could offer a wife much of anything except early widowhood. I wouldn't know how to go about finding a wife, anyway."

Chatter entirely understood. He had never tried to find a wife either. How could he be a husband when he'd had no models? He had three million brothers (most deceased, but he tried not to think about that). What woman would care to share her husband with such a strange and all-absorbing family, anyway? And he had even less idea how to be a father.

A few clones had married and had children. But most of the _vod'e_ had chosen instead to stick together in small enclaves, caring for each other in illness or other distress. There were bonds among them that non-clones could never fathom and that seemed, even now, to set them apart from all other inhabitants of the galaxy.

They had always been second-class beings. Even the Empire had not given them the dignity and respect of citizenship, for all they had fought and bled and died and betrayed in its service.

None of that needed to be spoken between the two men and the conversation foundered. When he'd finished eating, Commander Cody walked through the canyon until darkness fell while Chatter cleaned up their campsite. The two men retired for the night in melancholy silence.

* * *

Scratch snapped off the comm and leaned back in the pilot's seat. Propping his feet on the console, he stared at the black void of space. How had he ended up with the most boring and lonely role in this whole venture? He ought to be with Hex, running their security audit. Sure, Dash had done the initial infiltration of the palace with Theec's guidance, and Scratch understood Kraytrider's reasoning for sending him with Hex, but it left him with nothing to do but bring in the droids. Even that had no real urgency. As soon as they had set the plans in place, Scratch and Hex had traveled to their headquarters on Lantillies to pick up their supplies, including Hex's armor and Scratch's sniper rifle. On their way back to Tatooine, they had stopped at the warehouse on Herdessa to collect a squad of hybrid droidekas and another of modified B-1s. Both models had been doctored with GAR/IMP's special sauce that rendered them fully legal under Imperial law.

Scratch still took an almost juvenile delight in the way they were skirting the intent of that law. It was absolutely clear that the Empire had intended to outlaw battle droids. It was also undeniably true that the law only outlawed the programming. Nevertheless, to avoid too much Imperial scrutiny, they had built their company in the Mid- and Outer Rims, far from the direct oversight of the Empire. Their lawyers assured them the case would stand up in court, but given their lack of citizenship rights, Hex and his board of directors preferred not to take the risk.

So now Scratch sat half a parsec from Tatooine with nothing to do for over twenty-four hours. By prior arrangement, he was to add two hours and fifty-three minutes to whatever arrival time Hex specified. Though Hex wanted the audit to look perfectly genuine, he also intended to give Jabba's people no time to inspect the droids once they were deployed.

Scratch busied himself for a time with redundant maintenance checks on the ship's systems. When he found himself running a check on the sanitation system, he slapped the console in disgust and shut down the display. It returned to standby and flashed the date—a date he had been studiously ignoring.

Scratch was a sociable man. He enjoyed the company of others and did not care for solitude. Except for one day a year.

Empire Day.

He wouldn't admit it, but he had rather hoped when he signed up that this mission would extend at least through the Anniversary. It would give him a reason to pretend the cursed day didn't exist. Most of the year, he made every effort not to think about the chips and what they had cost him. He had worked too hard for too long to risk the despair that lay down the road of mourning.

But once a year, he kept solitary vigil and remembered. Each clone handled the Anniversary differently; many gathered in groups, chasing away the ghosts with companionship and activity. Others, stone-cold teetotalers the rest of the year, drank themselves into a stupor.

He wondered absently how Dash and Chatter spent the day. Or Commander Cody. He shivered at the thought. Not that he would ask. It violated a fundamental principle of clone etiquette to ask another clone about his Order 66 rituals. He did know that Hex, whose memories of the march on the Jedi Temple were sharp and detailed, couldn't bear to even acknowledge its existence and always buried himself in work. Scratch, guiltily aware that his own fragmentary memories of a battlefield on an unknown planet were a far easier burden, tried to ease his friend's distress by avoiding him that day.

His stomach clenched with dread. He inhaled deeply. Might as well install those command override chips in the droids. He stretched and went to the cargo hold, trying to hold his thoughts at bay. Company would be nice. Even Chatter would at least be a friendly face and someone to talk with.

In the aftermath of the removal of the chips and the clones' retirement, he had floundered. Two of his batchers had eaten their blasters shortly after the compulsion was removed. A third had become a "discipline problem" in the space between the chips' removal and formal separation from the Imperial Army. Even though they were nearly out of the military, a higher up who had always despised the clones had sent him to be "decommissioned" at Kamino. The senseless tragedy of their deaths and the guilt he had felt over his betrayal of the Jedi had driven Scratch to find solace in the bottom of a bottle. He barely remembered the first six months after retirement. He'd awakened one day in a detox center to a medic warning him his liver was rotting away under the onslaught of cheap alcohol. Scratch had lain in bed unable to bring himself to care when a bearded clone had poked his head in the door.

"Hey there, _vod_. Can I come in?"

"No."

The other man cheerfully ignored the refusal and dragged a chair to his bedside. "My name's Hex. HX-6066 if you need the service number." This was back in the days when clones still bothered giving each other the numbers the longnecks had assigned them. "Anyway," the stranger with the familiar face had said, "I heard you're in a spot of trouble and need a place to go."

"Not really. They're kicking me out. I'll go back to my alley. Sounds like I won't have to burden the taxpayers much longer."

"Now, that's no way to talk. You're not dead yet."

"I will be soon enough."

Hex had leaned up close to his face, eyes blazing. "Really? You're going to let them win?"

"Win? They already won."

"Not if you don't let them. The longnecks made you. The Republic used you. The Empire did too. But you're still here. So they haven't won yet. If you give up, now that you can finally choose your path for yourself, then you're saying they were right—that your only value was to fight and die. But you're more than a machine. You're _better than a droid_. So be better. Do something. Something valuable and worthwhile. Make a difference in the universe so no one can ever say you were just a flesh and blood droid."

"How? Only thing I know how to do is shoot and march and salute."

"So learn some new skills. I've got an idea—a security company staffed by _vod'e_ , with the profits used to support clones who need assistance. You interested? You'd have to stay out of the bottle, but I'll help you with that. You'd be an asset."

Scratch couldn't help it; he'd bawled like a baby. Hex had never mentioned his humiliating loss of control since. In the long months of recovery that followed, he'd nursed Scratch through miserable nights of despair and then dragged him to meetings and trainings during the day. By the time GAR/IMP launched almost a year later, Scratch was firmly on the road to sobriety and committed to sticking it to the galaxy in general and the Kaminoans, the Republic, and the Empire specifically. They'd gone to the tattoo parlor together—Scratch to adorn himself with Fett and Hex with the motto of their company.

In the years since, they'd become as close as batchmates. Hex seemed determined to wrest every credit he could from the galaxy as compensation for all that had been denied them. It was for a cause Scratch supported wholeheartedly, and the two of them had become a good team. As the _vod'e_ developed more health problems and other side effects of their rapid aging and as more were left alone, the organization their profits supported was recognized throughout the clone community. Clones who were reluctant to accept help from other charities wouldn't make a peep when Burc'ya Veman contacted them. Everyone knew it was run by brothers, for brothers.

Scratch had embraced his place in the community. In the years after retirement, the clones had established social clubs, ad hoc family groups, and support networks of various kinds, and Scratch threw himself into this new community. He volunteered with a service organization for disabled veterans. Mentored clones learning new skills. Worked with _vod'e_ struggling with substance abuse. Got them help and let them know they weren't forgotten. Burc'ya Veman had promised that no clone would be left poor or alone, and Scratch meant it earnestly.

Of course, the grand, painful irony was that someday the last survivor would be very wealthy but also all alone. Scratch and Hex hadn't been able to agree yet on how to prepare for that day, but it was far enough away that they could take their time to figure it out.

For now, he'd assist with taking down Jabba's mob. If his only role was to deliver the droids and act as backup, well, even that was necessary. Ten minutes later, he resealed the last crate and straightened. Dash and Chatter seemed reliable. Maybe he'd suggest they come work for GAR/IMP once this job was over. Commander Cody would make a good addition to the company, for that matter, but Scratch would never in a million years be so presumptuous as to offer a former marshal commander a job. He snapped off the light in the cargo bay and went to rustle up some dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a vocabulary:  
> Burc'ya Veman – [BOOR-shah veh-MAHN] lit. True friend; from a saying: A friend in danger is a true friend (A friend in need is a friend indeed)


	18. To Corrupt Good Character

Hex squared his shoulders and resisted the temptation to stretch. He and Dash had spent the day conducting the first stage of the audit, chaperoned by a security droid charged with reporting their every move. Now, his eyes gritty from the parched air and his back sore from hours on his feet, he would infinitely prefer a quiet evening in their room. He regretted that meeting with Jabba was more important. At least the party was not yet in session, though guards were stationed around the throne room and a couple of guests were already imbibing from the hookahs.

"Good news, Jabba. We've just about finished the audit on your landing bay. The bad news is we haven't even started on the barge or your ships. Everything else will have to wait."

"The majestic Jabba says that the ships are immaterial." Hex struggled to keep a straight face at the prim droid's ridiculously formal diction as it translated for the crime lord. "Only the barge is important. His Grandness wishes to inquire how many droidekas you ordered."

"Five. You may eventually want a couple more, but five should do the job tomorrow. Anyway that's what we had in the warehouse, so…" He shrugged, then scratched his cheek, feigning discomfort. "I'm a little surprised by how—old your security measures are. I'd think a being in your position would invest in regular upgrades to your security equipment. Your newest tech is fifty years old!" Over the years he had perfected a moderately outraged attitude that conveyed irritation at other people's poor decisions without giving offense to his audience. In about eighty percent of the cases, his incredulous, slightly disguised accusations convinced clients to order new equipment, usually directly through GAR/IMP.

Jabba was, apparently, in the other twenty percent. "The illustrious Jabba will decide how frequently to update his security." When the droid fell silent, Jabba flung out an arm as though to backhand it. Fortunately, it was standing out of reach. The Hutt rumbled something. If the droid had been an organic, Hex thought it would have gulped before it said slowly, "Do not forget your place, Master Clone."

"Sure, sure. No offense intended. It's just a mystery why you haven't been robbed blind yet."

Jabba laughed. This time the droid translated with more assurance. "It takes a bold thief to break into the fortress of Jabba the Hutt. Many have tried. Few have escaped."

"Yeah? That's not the rumor going through Mos Eisley right now. Didn't someone make off with two vats of water in the last few weeks? And I heard your favorite slave da—"

"The revered Jabba concedes that you are well informed, Master Clone, but rumors are often exaggerated. He advises that you not listen to them."

Hex inclined his head. "True. Well, that's not really any of our business. To get back to what is—we took a quick look at the most important parts of this fortress, just to give you an estimate. It's a bigger job than we anticipated. Probably two, three weeks. Your comm equipment is pretty secure in terms of encryption. The physical plant needs some upgrades, especially considering it's detached from your main building."

He blathered on about his observations gathered during their tour that morning, though he omitted the two most important points—that Dash had inserted a signal diverter amongst the comms equipment and applied skiffers to the vault and records room keypads. Just before he judged Jabba was becoming irritated at the long-winded report, he drew to a close. "We'll take a look at it while you're at the race day after tomorrow and give you a more detailed report when you get back."

"The munificent Jabba allows no work on Boonta Eve. He invites you instead to attend the race as his personal guests."

Hex shook his head. "We couldn't do that. It's a reward for your associates—think how jealous they'd be. If you're pleased with our work, invite us back next year. We'd be happy to accept."

"His Magnificence insists you must be his guests. It is a great honor."

Hex gestured helplessly. "We are grateful, but we can't take advantage of your hospitality. You hired us for a job. We've barely begun—You haven't got your money's worth."

Jabba laughed and spoke again. "The supreme Jabba approves of an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, but he also insists you honor the great Boonta's splendid victory. If you continue to resist, he will become suspicious. No one remains in the palace while he is away. It will be a working trip. You will monitor the droidekas. And if your work pleases him, the formidable Jabba will give you a holo of all of you in his box, just as they do in the Core. You may display it in your office to impress other clients."

Was Jabba's laugh derisive? It didn't matter. Hex laughed along and spread his hands wide. "All right, all right. You've convinced me. I just don't want you to think we don't take our job seriously."

As Jabba's guests began to fill the room, Dash stepped closer to the dais. "Don't mind Hex. He's a workaholic who doesn't care much for podracing. But I'm looking forward to seeing Pugwis race in person."

"His Eloquence says he's nothing compared to his grandfather. You should have seen _him_ race."

"If only…" Dash's head shake was regretful. "I hear Sebulba was the best 'racer of his generation. Won the Boonta Cup five times in a row."

"That he did. He lost only once in eight years."

"Too bad podracing isn't what it used to be. Still—I've never seen a Mos Espa circuit race live—It'll be amazing to watch the Boonta Eve from your box!"

"At least one of you will appreciate it, then. Though it remains to be seen if Pugwis can avoid disqualification this year."

"Yeah," Dash sighed. "But I can hope…"

Boba approached the dais. "I'm off. Until next time, Jabba."

Jabba said something and waved towards Dash and Hex.

"They mean nothing to me—Though they may be up to mischief. But you already know that. I can't stay for the race. I have a contract with Joosa. When you have more work, you know how to contact me." Without further farewell to the Hutt or so much as a glance at the clones, Boba left.

Hex was tempted to look at Dash, but after that veiled accusation, he didn't dare risk confirming they had something to hide. Jabba called out jovially, and a group of four dancers ran into the middle of the room.

Mindful of Boba's hint the evening before and trying to counter any suspicions the slug might cherish, the two men meandered around the perimeter of the room until they reached the alcove with the food.

"I didn't know you're a fan of podracing," Hex commented idly.

"I'm not. It's called research."

"I see. Well—good research then."

They fell silent. Two hours crawled past.

At 2200 Hex judged they could legitimately excuse themselves. Rather than attempt to slip away as they had done the evening before, he sought out Fortuna, who summoned a guard to lead them to their quarters.

Once again, they refrained from discussing anything of import while they prepared for bed. A quarter hour after they had returned to their room, a buzzer sounded. Hex, halfway through pulling a shirt over his head, exchanged a puzzled glance with Dash, who rose to open the door.

Outside was a fat human in a loincloth, with a chain in his hand and a lascivious expression in his eyes. He leered at Dash, saying in heavily accented Standard, "You share tonight. Gift from mighty Jabba. Speaks Standard."

He held the chain out. Dash looked horrified. When he didn't take the chain, the man tugged on it and stepped to one side. On the other end of the chain was the scantily-dressed Pantoran girl who had danced before Jabba the previous day. Her eyes were lowered. The man shoved her roughly forward until she stumbled into Dash.

"She yours. But share. No others." He leered again and closed the door.

Dash staggered away from her. Hex rose from the bed and they stared at each other in dismay, then at the blue-skinned girl whose chain dangled to the floor. After a long, frozen moment, Dash walked jerkily to the bed. He held a blanket out to the girl, but she made no indication she had so much as seen it. Dash approached her hesitantly. "Would you like this?"

She glanced up at last, dark eyes huge in her thin, expressionless face. "If you wish," she said softly in moderately accented Standard. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Do you want to cover yourself?"

She shrugged. "If you want. Sometimes people want strange things."

Dash frowned. "It's not about what I want. I just thought you might be chilly. And—er—maybe you would like to be less…exposed…in front of strangers."

Slowly she reached for the blanket. "I am a slave dancer in the court of Jabba the Hutt. I am exposed in front of strangers every day."

Dash bowed his head. "I know. But tonight, you don't have to be. If you don't want to."

She frowned, bewildered. "I have been ordered to do what you wish. What I want does not matter."

Hex and Dash regarded each other helplessly. Hex said, "Tonight it does. We don't want you. We're going to let you go back to your room." He turned toward the door, but she lunged, dropping the blanket and throwing herself against him.

"You don't—want me? I…" she bit her lip until it drew blood. "Please, my lords, give me another chance. You are human—you may not like nonhumans. But I will do whatever you want. Only please do not send me back."

"It's not that." Hex drew away from her, skin crawling. "We won't take advantage of you."

"I am a slave," she said simply.

"Yes. We know."

"You like free women?" She fell to the floor, arms wrapped around Hex's knees. "Not slaves? Not me? Sirs, please—don't send me back. Please."

Dash said, "But we can't—we _won't_ do this to you."

The girl began to shake her head violently. "Please. I beg you. Don't send me back. Even if you don't want me." A torrent of incomprehensible Huttese flooded out.

Dash reached toward her shoulder, but jerked his hand back before touching her. "I—" he swallowed hard— " _We_ don't understand."

"I'll be killed. Please—even if you don't like me—even if I'm ugly—don't send me back." Her whole body was trembling now and she continued shaking her head.

" _Killed!"_ Hex said. "No, no, no. We don't want you killed. We just—" He grabbed her hand. "Look—stand up. Sit over here." Dash handed him the blanket and he gently wrapped it around her, careful not to touch her skin. Once she was covered, he pressed her shoulder until she sank onto the edge of the bed. He crouched on his haunches in order not to loom over her. "We don't understand what you mean. Could you explain?"

She gnawed at her lip and grasped the blanket so tightly the skin around her knuckles went gray. "The dancers are for Jabba's pleasure and to reward his guests," she said softly, staring at her lap. "They are valuable only so long as they please him. If a dancer fights him or refuses an order…" she shrugged. "Dancers are cheap. I am a little more valuable because I speak Standard. I am useful when Jabba wishes to make a deal with a client who does not speak Huttese. But if I do not please the clients, then I am useless. A waste of water and food. So I will be killed."

Hex stared at her stony expression, the horror he felt all the worse for the matter of fact manner in which she had spoken. He and the rest of the clones had been created to be useful. They had been expendable both to those who created them those who used them. But when they had served their purpose, they had been allowed to retire. Even granted pensions and benefits and medical care for the health problems they developed as a side effect of their accelerated aging. If they had never been treated as equals, neither had they been killed once their usefulness ended.

He rubbed his left bicep where the phrase _Better Than a Droid_ defied the justification the Kaminoans had used to sell them to the Republic. Many clones had allowed themselves to be limited by that phrase. Had thought of themselves as nothing more than flesh and blood droids.

Hex, though—he had always thought that allowed the longnecks and the politicians to win. He had rebelliously tattooed the legend on his body and set out to use his training and experience to build a life and a valuable legacy for himself. Reconditioning and selling Seppie droids felt like the most poetic justice he could devise. In spite of everything—Republic, Empire, Jedi, Sith—they had survived, where the Seppie armies had not. He could now buy and sell the very thing he had been made to fight against—and make a fortune along the way—even as he created jobs and a sense of community and purpose for other clones. The fortune he was amassing would provide security for his brothers in a galaxy that had never cared for them. Had made them and used them and spit them out. He refused to be defined by what had been done to him.

This poor girl, though—she had never had a chance at that sort of dignity. She didn't even seem to dream it was a possibility. Hex narrowed his eyes. He hadn't known when he agreed to this job that Jabba did things like _this_. Did Kraytrider know? Because all at once, it wasn't enough to kill the villainous slug and destroy his records. This girl, and the others like her who must be here, deserved to discover life beyond slavery. Whatever had been done to him and his brothers, at least they hadn't been slaves. Though they had never been citizens, they had been sapient beings, treated with dignity and purpose by their commanders. Even Lord Vader, tough as he had been on his subordinates, had always treated the clones the same way he treated the natborn vols.

Hex said in Mando'a, "We need to talk. But—" He pointed his chin toward the speaker in the wall. "You have anything for that?"

Dash rummaged in his case for a small device. A flick of a switch and intermittent static issued from the machine, which he clipped to a wire that dangled near the speaker. He knelt beside Hex.

"Kraytrider needs to know about this," Hex said as quietly and indistinctly as he could, still in Mando'a. "I vaguely recall that he mentioned not destroying the slave quarters…"

"I know," Dash whispered. "I had no idea it was like this. We've gotta get them out."

"Yeah. It's probably better to handle that after…" Hex jerked his head significantly. Best not to articulate anything, even in Mando'a.

Dash nodded his comprehension. "I'm happy to stick around to help with that if he wants."

"Me too. For now—what do we do about her?"

The two men looked up at the girl. She was staring ahead without expression.

"We've got tonight's project—" even in Mando'a Dash wouldn't risk naming it— "but we can't send her back."

Hex gnawed on his mustache. It was a risk, yet they couldn't condemn her to death merely to protect their mission. "We keep her here. We'll just have to get in and out silently." Switching back to Standard, he said to the girl, "What's your name?"

"Yenzon, my lord."

"I'm not a lord." He shook his head. "My name is Hex. This is Dash."

She blinked but said nothing.

"We won't hurt you," Dash repeated. "We're gonna help you. Um—you'll be killed if we send you back? I assume that means if we send you back tonight?"

She nodded slightly.

"Then we won't do that. Ahh…we aren't really sure how this works. Do you go back—um—wherever you live—tomorrow?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Pligu will come in the morning to take me back."

"All right." Hex heaved a sigh. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"I can't take your food and water."

"Right—That means yes." Dash dug through their supplies for a bulb of water and a ration bar. "Sorry it's not something tastier."

She took the items hesitantly. Dash gestured for her to go ahead. At last she tore the wrapper off slowly and took a small bite. There was silence while she ate.

When she had finished, Dash tucked the wrapper back in his pack and smiled at her. "You can sleep there. We're going to help you. I promise."

It was clear she didn't believe them, but Hex merely pulled a poncho out of his gear to serve as a blanket. The two men flipped a credit for who would sleep on the floor and turned out the lights.


	19. Virtue's Boldness

The alarm vibrated at 0200. Dash had lost the toss and was on the floor, wrapped in the poncho. He nudged Hex, who woke with a jerk. Both men froze at the creak of the bed. After a moment, they relaxed when there was no sound from the other side of the room. Poor girl. What kind of quarters did she usually sleep in?

Dash's wrath at her treatment had not abated. She was one of the dancers who had performed the night they arrived—the one who had tumbled and pirouetted so fearlessly. He loathed himself for the way the image of her sinuous dancing lingered in his mind, in spite of his efforts to erase it. With a surge of irritation he grabbed his case and forced his mind to their next task. He might not be able to prevent images of her from rising up, but he didn't have to dwell on them.

The men crept to the door, grateful for the static generator still crackling away next to the intercom. Unfortunately, the gears ground as the door opened.

A squeak emanated from the other bed. "Master Pligu. I'm sorry. I'm coming."

Dash murmured, "He's not here. You can go back to sleep."

"What? The door…"

"We opened it. We're going to—get some water."

Her chain clinked. Though the light from the hall was too dim to see her, Dash thought she might be sitting on the edge of the bed. "You can't! The master's guards patrol the halls. They'll kill you if they catch you wandering around. I will get the water."

Dash knelt beside her. Hex closed the door. "Did Jabba put you here to keep an eye on us?"

"I don't know." Her voice was tiny in the darkness.

"Does he use you and the other girls as spies?" Hex sank down next to Dash.

"Spies?"

"Does he ask you about the men? The ones you're sent to?" Dash tried to phrase the question circumspectly.

"Sometimes Pligu does." Her voice was hesitant. "He likes to hear what clients liked."

So this Pligu was a pervert, but it was likely he was also keeping tabs on what untrusted guests did. "Do you have to tell him if the, er, clients left while you were with them?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I will have to tell him if you go out and how long you were gone."

Dash hesitated. The mission now balanced on a knife's edge. There would be no chance to complete this part of the plan tomorrow. Kraytrider had insisted that destruction of the records was essential; they had to do this tonight. Yet if Yenzon reported their absence, the entire operation might fail. On the other hand, his gut told him she could be a trustworthy ally. There was no way to tell how traumatized she was or what Jabba's minions might do to compel her to talk. But if she could hold out twenty-four hours, it would all be over. He just hoped this didn't cost her life.—or theirs...

He threw the dice. "Yenzon, we're here for something very important. Jabba will kill us if he finds out. And now you too. I'm sorry. We didn't mean to put you in danger. I know what I'm asking is hard—I'm going to ask anyway. Please don't tell anyone we left. We'll be back before morning, and we'll do everything we can to protect you."

"What are you doing?"

"I can't say. You can't tell what you don't know. If anyone asks, that's what you say—you don't know. You woke up and we were gone."

She made a sound that might have been a smothered whimper.

"I know. If you have to say anything, you're probably dead. I'm so sorry—I wish it was different. We have to do this. I promise you, though—If it works, Jabba won't ever bother you again."

There was a quick inhalation. "The Grand Assembly. We heard the rumors. They're true?" Her voice was eager.

"Rumors?" Hex asked.

"Freedom will come on Boonta Eve. With the Grand Assembly. The Great Krayt will bring freedom to the slaves."

"I—hadn't heard that," Hex said. "Does Jabba know?"

"No. Or he would have killed us all instead of letting so much as one slave escape."

"Well, I hope it's happening. But, no, that's not—we're not here to free slaves. Unfortunately."

A part of the puzzle of this mission resolved in Dash's mind. "Actually—I think we are," he said slowly. " _Freed slave_."

"What?" Hex asked.

"Kraytrider's contact info—on the message board. Part of it was a hexadecimal string—It meant _freed slave_."

"Krayt Rider?" Yenzon whispered, almost too hushed to be heard, even in the silent darkness. "The Krayt Rider is coming?"

"Um. I suppose so. You know him?" Hex asked.

"He's the freedom-bringer. All the stories say so. The Krayt Rider escapes his master so he can help other slaves."

"Stories?" Dash was fascinated, but time was slipping away. "Never mind—we don't have time to talk right now. Will you protect us?"

"Yes." Her voice was the most confident they had heard. "I will come with you. I will help."

"No. You don't even know what we're doing."

"I can guide you. I know corridors only slaves use. There will be no guards."

Hex started to protest; Dash laid a hand on his arm. Time was flying. "All right. If you want. But it will be very dangerous for you. Especially once you know what we're doing."

"I won't tell anyone. No matter what they do to me. You are agents of the _Krayt Rider_."

Dash had never heard such raw hope in someone's voice. Whatever Kraytrider meant to her, it was much more than their employer's name. "All right." He sighed. "A path without guards to the administrative section next to Fortuna's office would be very helpful."

The bed groaned as she rose. In the corridor she flitted ahead of them to peer around a corner. She had secured her chain in some manner Dash hadn't seen and was remarkably silent as they followed her through several turns. Although Dash tried to keep track, in moments he was hopelessly disoriented. He would never be able to find his way back to their room. Their safety and success now lay entirely in Yenzon's hands.

She had just signaled it was time to move again when she stiffened, retreating into a small alcove near the junction with a more brightly-lit corridor. Dash and Hex obeyed her sharp gesture and pressed in beside her. A clamor of drunken laughter and stumbling steps rang out.

The three of them would be visible the moment anyone rounded the corner.

Someone in the party bellowed something raucous in Huttese and staggered toward their hallway. Jeers and catcalls followed, accompanied by scuffling. The drunk was dragged away from them down the main corridor. Yenzon relaxed, but she did not move until the echoes of revelry had completely faded in the distance.

"Now," she said in a sharp whisper and darted down the corridor, her bare feet noiseless against the stone. To Dash's anxious ears, his own boots thundered like an AT-AT lumbering across a battlefield. They ran almost thirty meters before Yenzon disappeared into another small alcove. This one had no light and the gap was so small they probably would have overlooked it without a guide.

The alcove turned out not to be an alcove at all, but a painfully narrow corridor. While they huddled against the wall to allow their breathing to slow, heavy footsteps approached. Dash looked to the girl, who shook her head and gestured they should remain still. A patrol of Gamorrean guards passed the narrow opening and continued down the hall. The moment they were out of sight, though not out of earshot, Yenzon started deeper into the gloom.

The passageway, which easily accommodated her slight frame, forced Dash and Hex to crouch and twist slightly sideways. Their cases knocked repeatedly against the walls. The way was dark, dim glowpanels every ten meters providing the only illumination, and the air was fetid. After perhaps ten or fifteen meters, doors appeared on either side. They were old-fashioned swinging doors with a small, glassless window fitted with metal bars. Within there was a rustle of movement and occasional soft words. People lived here?

Dash tapped Yenzon on the shoulder. "Who is in these rooms?"

"Household slaves," she whispered. "Do not worry; the doors have been locked for the night. The keepers will not come back until sunrise."

Dash didn't know whether to scream or weep. Kraytrider's plans had better include freeing these people or he was going to come back and do it himself.

They traveled for what seemed ages through the rank passageway until they reached an equally narrow staircase. Yenzon led them down, which seemed entirely the wrong direction to Dash, but he had placed his trust in her. It was too late to change his mind.

The staircase led them into the service area, lined with the kitchens and storerooms. She held her fingers to her lips as they drew near a curtained doorway. They slowed almost to a crawl. Hex's case clunked against the wall. Yenzon whirled with a scowl. A guttural voice said something inside the room. Yenzon gestured sharply and ducked into a storeroom. She practically shoved them into the farthest corner. Even with her form nearly indistinguishable in the dim light, her frown was apparent. Obediently, he sank down beside Hex and breathed as silently as he could.

Someone massive tramped past and two voices spoke in a guttural language he didn't recognize. It soon became evident they were making their way up and down the corridor, investigating the noise. A Gamorrean shuffled past the doorway, poked his head into the room—huge body silhouetted against the dim light—then shambled back the way he had come. The three crouched in the darkness for what seemed an eternity. Dash's legs had begun to protest before Yenzon whispered, "Gamorreans have keen ears but they do not see well. They are so stupid."

"That's fine by me," said Hex with a huff that could have been a nervous laugh. "I'll take stupidity any day. Sorry about the case."

She dismissed the apology with a shake of her head and led them out of the storeroom. She hesitated beside the kitchen door. A few slaves were still at work, doubtless providing food for the party in the great hall.

"I will speak with them," she whispered. "When I signal, go down the steps and up the stairs on the other side. Do not stop. And do not make any noise." This last was aimed at Hex, who gave an abashed nod.

She walked with assurance into the large chamber. A tired, middle-aged man looked up from the table where he was chopping something Dash didn't want to examine closely. He said something in Huttese. Yenzon shook her head and replied. The man sighed and turned toward a doorway, calling his assistants with him. Yenzon waved her hand beside her hip at the clones. Stepping as lightly as they could, they hurried toward the stairs, pausing once they reached the landing. Below, Yenzon and the older man spoke again. A moment later she appeared, carrying a pair of bottles. At Dash's questioning glance, she jerked her chin upward. Hex and Dash resumed their ascent. Once they reached the next level, she made her way past them and handed Dash the whiskey. He tucked the bottles in his case.

"What did you do?" Hex asked.

"I told him I was entertaining the suckers who tried to dupe Jabba and they were enjoying my services so much they were thirsty. He joked about outlanders who don't know how to conserve water. And he reminded me this isn't the way to the guest quarters. I said I was not in a hurry to get back to such lusty clients." She ducked her head and whispered, "It is the best way to prevent suspicion."

Dash's heart clenched at the casual degradation, but it was Hex who answered. "No worries. We don't care what people think of us—especially here. Are we close?"

She raised her head. "Three levels. This staircase exits beside the administrative section."

By the time they had climbed two long flights of stairs, Dash's legs were quivering with the strain, while Yenzon showed no signs of exhaustion. He was relieved when she called a halt at the top of the third flight.

"Wait," she breathed and slipped into the corridor.

Every instinct rebelled against letting her take point, but this was her territory. She moved so quietly, Dash almost missed her return.

"Guards are coming. We must wait."

Soon footsteps approached—not Gamorreans this time—and faded around the corner. The guards gave no sign of any suspicions. The three crept along the corridor to peer down the main corridor of the administrative section. No guards in sight. Fortuna's office was the closest. Beyond it lay the doors for the records room and the credit vault. Dash checked his chrono by the dim light. The circuitous route had taken them well over the half hour he had allotted for their travel, but with so many guards, a trip according to his map would have been even slower. There hadn't been nearly this many patrols during his scouting trip with Theec a few weeks ago.

Dash gestured to the others to remain where they were. The area was monitored by only one camera, which was pointed toward the administrative hallway. Dash positioned himself beside it, out of range of its lens.

On his trip with Theec, he had attached his own well-disguised camera to the wall. He reclaimed the memory chip, sliding it into his datapad. After consulting his chrono, he searched for the timestamp of 0247 the night before and scanned the following three hours. _Ke'tracyn!_ No telling what had set off the security alert, but a number of guards had rushed into the corridor at 0422 and had milled around for over ten minutes. He scanned the same period from two nights ago. Better. It was too bad there was no way to be certain tonight's patrol times would match the recording. Regardless, they didn't have time for him to fiddle any longer—they would have to hope no one would notice any discrepancies. He set the recording to start playing at 0249 hours and attached the data cable to his datapad in place of the camera.

A sharp nod at Hex and they proceeded to the records room door. Two weeks earlier, the security camera had deterred Dash from exploring this corridor. Despite taking the best survey he could through electrobinoculars, he had not been able to make out much more than that the doors had well-maintained electronic locks. During this morning's tour, he had applied skimmers to them. Now he peeled the thin film off the keypad, careful not to get it stuck on his gloves, and applied it to a reader. Oh, _haar'chak_. No one had opened this door at all today.

When he had expressed concern to Kraytrider that he hadn't been able to apply the skimmers in advance, the man had assured him Jabba would be receiving currency today because so many debts came due at Boonta Eve. They had assumed both doors would be opened at least once.

"I have a small bomb that could open it," said Hex. He paused. "It would probably set off an alarm, though."

"Yeah. I bet." _Hayc_! Ordnance specialists. A bomb was not the solution to every problem. Dash pulled out his small toolkit and rummaged rapidly. He removed the screws on the keypad, exposing the wires. In the distance, the tread of many feet sounded. How long would he have? Two minutes? One? Hands steady by force of will, he began tracing wires.

* * *

Hex stood watch while Dash hotwired the lock. The process seemed to take ages as he fumbled with the mass of wires. "Be sure to bypass the alarm."

" _Ob-_ viously."

Hex gritted his teeth and scouted for any places of concealment. There were none. It was a long corridor with three locked doors and no nooks or cross-corridors in which to take refuge. Yenzon tugged his sleeve and pointed in the other direction. Hex froze. There was another patrol coming up. Yenzon's eyes were even larger than usual.

The lock clicked, and Dash swung the old-fashioned door open halfway, adjusting the keypad to look undisturbed. The three scrambled into the room, pushing the door shut stealthily. They crouched in the dark room, the slightly out-of-cadence tread thundering stereophonically in their over-sensitized ears. Hex's heart was hammering and he wondered how the other two were coping. Time seemed to stand still.

The steps halted. Rough voices spoke. Hex hardly dared breathe, joining Dash in holding the door shut. Though if the guards were investigating the door, it was probably too late. An eternity passed. At last the voices stopped and the footsteps resumed, traveling in opposite directions.

Hex relaxed infinitesimally. "Could you understand what they said?"

"They complained about the extra patrols and said they hoped the schedule would go back to normal after Boonta Eve."

"Nothing about the lock? The door? Anything?" Dash's voice was a little strangled.

"No."

"Thank whatever power seems to be watching over this mission," Dash's voice was no more than a whisper. "And thank _you_ for guiding us, Yenzon. I don't think we could have made it without you." He stood. "You said the keepers come back to the slave area at sunrise?"

"Yes."

"That gives us less than two hours. We'd better get moving." Dash reached for the door.

Hex thrust his hand away. "Wait." He opened his case and fumbled for the small cloth that covered the explosives. Whoever monitored the cameras might have noticed the light as they came into the room. In which case their sojourn would be short. There was no help for that, unfortunately, but he could take steps not to draw any further attention. He draped the heavy fabric over the room's security camera before Dash left to collect the skimmer on the vault door.

Still standing beside the open door, Hex surveyed the room. This might be the most risky element of their operation. If the bombs were discovered in the next twenty-four hours, the entire scheme could fall apart. And if the team was caught here in the middle of the night, there would be no explanation that would save their lives.

He set that concern aside. What would happen, would happen. Right now he had a job to do. A very important job.

The first step was to deal with the rest of the security equipment. By some miracle, they hadn't triggered the motion sensor yet. Ah. Someone had tried to maximize the percentage of the room it covered and had left an unmonitored cone beside the door. If it weren't so convenient, he would delight in chastising Jabba for such a rookie mistake.

He gestured to Yenzon to sit on a crate to the right of the door and attached a small light to his collar. He grabbed his wire cutters to gingerly disable the motion sensor and the alarm next to it.

The control box for the fire suppression system was mounted on the unplastered wall beside the alarm. He attached a small EMP device to the inside of the fire box. It was short range—only two meters—so he would plant the timed charges outside that perimeter and use incendiaries and accelerant inside the two meter boundary. He had just finished scattering the accelerant along the wall when Dash returned.

"Any luck with the skimmer?"

"Yeah," Dash whispered after he closed the door, "I got the code."

Hex grinned and handed him a light. Now for the fun part.

Hex was a true artist. The architecture of destruction had served as his bedtime stories since his earliest days. Where other boys might build and knock down towers of blocks, he had practiced placing bombs and grenades for maximum destructive power. He could destroy one building on a city block, leaving all its neighbors structurally sound. He knew the characteristics of each type of explosive. The yield required to achieve any objective. And exactly what chaos a plain old bomb could cause.

Now he created a masterpiece in the dark and the silence. It was a masterpiece no one would see and only a handful would ever know about, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the quality of his craft and the beautiful destruction it would wreak.

With efficient, practiced motions, Hex sorted his explosives and began laying them through the room. Dash was charged with placing incendiaries among the data tapes on the shelves while Hex attached the timed bombs to the electronic equipment in the center of the room. The trick, of course, was that the bombs couldn't be discovered before Jabba and his minions left for the race. But maybe Dash was right and something _was_ guiding this operation. With luck, the room would remain as undisturbed tomorrow as it had been today. Hex tucked the devices into crevices and under consoles.

Lacking any advance intel on this room, he had opted to carpet the room with small bombs rather than concentrating fewer larger ones on the main equipment. He set the final charge and stood to ease his back. Dash caught his attention with a gesture. Hex followed him to discover a second room filled to overflowing with older magnetic storage devices. Dash pointed to one of the labels. It was from _four hundred_ years earlier.

Assessing the room rapidly, Hex concluded that the most recent record in this section was two hundred years old. He checked his case. He didn't have enough incendiaries or bombs to ensure destruction of everything in this room. It probably didn't matter. There weren't that many species that lived more than two centuries. If a few of these records survived, most likely it wouldn't a problem. He passed Dash half of the remaining supplies and gestured that he would take the back of the room.

Out of supplies at last, they pressed their ears to the door. There was no sound outside.

"How long since the last patrol?" Hex asked Yenzon.

"A few minutes."

He checked his chrono; it was past 0430. "There's no time to wait." He swung the door open. "We need a lookout. Let us know if a patrol is coming."

She nodded and took up a position down the hall.

While Dash worked on the lock, Hex painstakingly spliced the alarm box wires. The moment the green ready light came on, he snatched the cloth off the camera and rushed out of the room. Dash swung the door closed, taking no care to be quiet. His fingers flew among the wires. After a hasty check of the keypad, they hurried down the corridor.

But before Dash could restore the hall camera, Yenzon whispered, "Guards."

They whipped into the stairwell and crowded against the wall. Patrol safely past, Dash deftly disconnected his datapad and restored the camera.

Yenzon was evidently concerned about the time, too, because she was less cautious on the return trip. The kitchens were, fortunately, deserted. They hustled past the guards' quarters and into the narrow corridor where the slaves were confined. She sped along, pausing only to speak softly in Huttese to someone who called out from the last room. Hex thought he caught the word _Kraytrider_. Whoever had spoken subsided and Yenzon rushed them back out of the slave quarters.

They had to avoid two patrols in the guest section. The first one passed swiftly, but the second, when they were almost in sight of their destination, stood arguing for long minutes with an inebriated Gotal.

She almost ran toward their room the instant the guards had disappeared around the corner. Dash and Hex scurried after her, puzzled by her urgency now that they were through the slave quarters. Once the door was safely closed behind them, Dash said, "Thank you, Yenzon. You did something very brave and we are grateful."

"You are with the Krayt Rider," she replied, as though that explained everything. "Quick! Pligu will be here any minute."

Hex reached for the light.

"No! You must get in bed, as if you have been there all night." She thrust their cases out of sight. Pushing Hex onto a bed, she tugged the blanket up. "You must be asleep," she hissed and shoved Dash toward the other bed.

The door shuddered. A crack of light fell across the floor. Hex, who had risen on his elbow, sank back down, though he did not close his eyes.

Dash turned toward the door. Yenzon threw her arms around him; Dash froze. "Kiss me," she commanded under cover of the noise of the door. When he didn't comply, she dragged his head down. Hex thought Dash was too shocked to respond consciously, but his arms came up around her. The light fell across them and a venal chuckle echoed.

"No more," Pligu said in a lascivious tone that made Hex want to punch him. "Your time with her over."

Yenzon stepped back, and Dash's arms dropped to his side. Pligu grabbed her chain. She left without a backward glance.

* * *

**Mando'a vocabulary:**

_ke'tracyn_ [keh-TRAH-sheen] – fire (as in to fire a weapon); used as a mild swear word, akin to blast  
 _Haar'chak!_ [HAR-chahk] – Dammit!  
 _hayc_ [haysh] – honestly (used as an interjection)


	20. . . . Comes a Good End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all the readers who expressed excitement for the nitty-gritty details of the revolution, which pushed me to write these chapters and gave me a chance to explore the clones in ways I hadn't previously considered. Now as we wrap up these side quests, as Rainbowdea put it, and return to the main quest, I hope you'll all enjoy the annihilation of Jabba. It couldn't happen to a more deserving slug.
> 
> The dark themes around Yenzon's slavery are at their most disturbing in this chapter (but still nothing explicit). If it makes your stomach turn a bit, think how I felt as I wrote it! 
> 
> P.S. I did consider breaking this chapter into two sections, since it's on the long side for chapters in this story and there's a perfect point to break it (with a bonus cliffhanger) just about halfway through, but I decided not to torment all of you faithful readers by delaying Jabba's demise for yet another installment. 
> 
> You're welcome.

Hex paced the landing platform, nerves taut, his annoyance barely feigned. Fortuna's half-disguised suspicion gnawed at him. Scratch's delay in delivering the droids, by design though it was, wore on him. Jabba's suspicion was clear—so why was he allowing them access at all? The suspense was intolerable.

His anxiety over Yenzon's safety and his uncertainty about her reliability under pressure only compounded the tension. Her peculiar reaction to Kraytrider's name had convinced Dash she would keep their secrets, but it was not much comfort to Hex—he couldn't shake the feeling that her involvement would lead to complications.

The two men had spent the morning ostentatiously conducting the next part of the audit, and Hex had disciplined himself to work as diligently as though their efforts were genuine. Now they were putting on a show of irritable impatience at an unanticipated delay. Dash glanced up, prompting Hex to stretch his ears. He sighed in relief at the welcome roar of approaching freighter engines.

"What happened?" Hex demanded once the ship landed. "You're almost three hours late and you haven't answered your comm."

"Didn't get any comms, _vod_ ," Scratch said placidly. "Had some problems with customs at Herdessa. Thought I could make up the time, so I didn't comm you. Didn't want you to worry. Then I was in hyperspace."

"Problems?" Hex snapped. "We've been moving merch through Herdessa for seven years."

Scratch shrugged. "The Guild's tightening their grip on trade through the system. I finally had to bribe somebody to get departure clearance." He raised a placating hand. "I know, I know. We've got a trade agreement with the Guild. But the more I reminded the dockmaster, the more he insisted the paperwork wasn't valid. You can take it up with the Guild later. I figured with the timeframe so tight, we could absorb the cost of the bribe. Speaking of, we'd better get these unloaded…"

Fortuna insisted on scanning the shipment while Hex made a show of fuming over the delay. Hex waited until the inspectors had cleared the crates to say, "Oh, yeah—we've been invited to the podrace as Jabba's guests. He wants us to monitor the droids on the trip. We'll meet you at the drop off when we're done. Oh—and you better notify Chatter we'll be a little late."

"Lucky you," Scratch said, tone admirably envious. "Why'd you take him instead of me?" He pointed at Dash.

"Get outta here. I don't want to hear it. We've got work to do." Hex summoned Dash and started to walk away. He turned back as if remembering something important. "I almost forgot. The estimate on the equipment we'll need next. Better get started on it—especially if the Guild is reneging on our agreement."

Dash handed Scratch the datapad containing a dummy equipment estimate and the genuine vault code. Then they hurried into the bay, accompanied by Jabba's ever-present droid observer.

Neither Dash nor Hex had seen the interior of the sail barge yet. It was stored (rather inefficiently in Hex's opinion) suspended by cables in the middle of the bay. He had to admit it was, at least, fairly secure from sabotage or theft in that position. The boarding ramp had been extended and they hurried aboard with their cargo. The interior of the barge stank, as did everything in this hellhole, of Hutt drool and unspeakable evil.

Without a word they set to work uncrating the droids. It was a curious fact of this business that where once the sight of droidekas would have sent a shiver of dread through Hex's heart, now he felt a sharp satisfaction. Particularly when he considered what use these droids would be put to.

The initialization process occupied a couple of hours, during which the chaperone droid monitored them closely. Fortunately, since Scratch had already installed the override chips and programmed the detonation coordinates, there was nothing in the startup sequence to provoke suspicion. The override chips were merely a failsafe in case anything happened to the control brain, necessitating remote destruction of the barge. Once the droids had activated, Hex led them in mapping the three decks. By this time, household slaves and droids had begun loading supplies, forcing Hex and his entourage to maneuver around the commotion to the muttered disgust of more than one overseer.

The uppermost deck was a simple matter, even the three steps between the foredeck and the afterdeck presenting no challenge to the droidekas. The middle deck was intended for Jabba and his guests. A galley lay amidships with the main cabin behind it in the stern. Given the size of the passageway beside the galley, it was obvious Jabba would be confined to the main cabin. Hex debated adding a couple of stationary bombs in the aft section, but the escort droid's presence discouraged the idea. A pair of staterooms occupied the space between the galley and the cramped bridge in the prow. Also in the forward section was a small locked room which both the droid and Fortuna refused to open.

Hex adopted the same "It's on your head" expression he had been employing throughout this audit and shrugged before proceeding to the lowest deck, which housed the engine and repulsorlift equipment. The droids that serviced the area ignored them as he and Dash installed the master droid brain near the prow under their escort's watchful visual processors, while the droidekas mapped the cramped deck in turn. The bypass mechanism in the brain was designed so that the droidekas should blow when the barge reached the designated coordinates, regardless of whether they were in active or standby mode. In light of Jabba's distrust, Hex had fresh doubts about this plan, but it was impossible to make adjustments at this point. Fortunately, they had brought a little extra insurance.

Dash was tasked with distributing a number of miniature bombs among the repulsorlift generators and beside the fuel tanks toward the aft of the deck. Each had a tiny receiver and would detonate at the brain's signal. Although the sabotaged droidekas had ample explosive power to destroy the barge, it was impossible to guarantee any of them would be on the lowest deck at the time of detonation. Rapidly igniting the fuel lines was key to ensuring none of the passengers had a chance to escape.

Hex ran the initiation sequence for the brain as Dash pretended a survey of the aft deck. This flustered their droid chaperone considerably. It darted back and forth in an attempt to monitor both of them, protesting all the while.

"All right, all right." Hex's tone was placating. He packed his tools and joined the droid beside the ladder to the upper decks. "No need to get excited, pistonhead. We're on a tight schedule, that's all."

Behind the droid, Dash shook his head slightly, expression apologetic. So he hadn't been able to place all the bombs. Well, it was a pity, but they'd done all they could.

"It's almost 1930. We'd better clear our stuff out." Hex led a final walkthrough, confirming that all slaves and non-GAR/IMP droids had debarked, then collected the shipping crates.

Once the crates were stowed in their speeder, he and Dash took a minute to check their gear. They had come prepared for anything and now Hex was grateful for that foresight. Not only had he stashed an extra case of grenades and bombs in the speeder, but they had also brought rappelling equipment. Just in case Jabba hadn't fallen in with the security audit, necessitating infiltration of the palace by stealth. As they stowed the compact cables and anchors in the compartments in their belts, neither acknowledged explicitly that they would almost certainly be escaping from the barge while it was in motion. Hex stuffed a couple of grenades and miniature bombs in his utility belt.

"My security blanket," he said with a droll air in response to Dash's inquiring look.

"We'll have to stay to the last possible moment. If our absence is discovered, it will cause suspicion."

"I know." Hex grimaced. "But you were there. Jabba wasn't going to let us skip the race. I thought he might lock us up if we didn't agree."

Dash nodded once in agreement. "I checked. Those portholes are large enough for a person, though the shutters snap down pretty quickly."

Hex shrugged. "At least one thing's going our way. I hope we can make a point of not spending most of the time in the main cabin. We can claim we like the pure desert air, or something. Hang out on the top deck. Maybe even escape from there if we're lucky."

From their speeder, they could see two skiffs being readied. They exchanged anxious glances.

"That could be trouble," Dash said.

"Yeah. You didn't use all your supplies, right?"

Dash nodded. They exited the speeder and ambled toward the skiffs. Their escort droid cut them off.

"You are to return to the barge."

Hex lifted his hands. "Okay, okay. We were just professionally interested." They turned to the stairs.

They had timed their return perfectly—or terribly, depending on the point of view: Jabba's hover platform was approaching the barge. Hex greeted him. "We do appreciate the invitation to the race." He nodded into the hangar. "Are you sending a supply run too?"

Jabba guffawed. The translator droid—the only non-GAR/IMP droid allowed on the barge—said, "No. They are extra security provided by the indomitable Jabba. He did not bother with an audit of them. The guards have been personally selected by his Greatness and in the case of a security breach could not do any significant damage to the barge."

"That's good," Hex said as enthusiastically as he could manage. "Well—everything's ready on our end. The droidekas are booted up and running."

Once Jabba was settled in the main cabin, he boomed something in Huttese. It must have meant, "Let the party begin," because immediately the band struck up. The volume of conversation rose in direct proportion. The barge shuddered and jerked into motion. Hex had planted his feet in anticipation. Some of the more impaired members of the party had not had such foresight and tumbled into one another. Judging from the hilarity that ensued, this was a regular feature of these parties.

Dash and Hex exchanged disgusted looks.

"If you don't mind, we'll go back on deck to keep watch," said Hex.

Jabba rumbled jovially. "That is unnecessary," the droid translated. "Your work is finished, unless, of course, your droids malfunction. Until then, you are the guests of the benevolent Jabba. He wishes you to rest and relax. He offers food suitable for humans and an array of alcohol. Spice is available to smoke or drink or inject. Tell Master Bib Fortuna what you wish and he will direct you."

Hex desperately wanted to refuse all of it, but Jabba was suspicious enough already. "I'm hungry—dinner sounds good."

Fortuna directed them to a small alcove where a wide variety of food was spread on tables and shelves. Hex had learned in the past three days not to examine most of it too closely. Or at all. Equipped with plates and ale, he and Dash took up posts near a porthole. Dash reached out to prop one of the shutters open and Hex gratefully inhaled air that was slightly less toxic. Now came the hard part. The waiting.

Over the next three hours, Hex did his best to remain unobtrusive. He envied Dash's skill at fading into the background. Every so often Jabba called out jests in their direction and Hex smiled and joked back. Fortunately, the bounty hunters, thieves, and smugglers who comprised the rest of the guest list were uninterested in pursuing an acquaintance. The setting suns bathed the landscape in a wash of gold and purple. At least the landscape gave him something to look at.

* * *

The hours passed at a crawl. Sometime after sunset they reached Mos Eisley and half a dozen additional thugs joined them. To Dash's eyes, there wasn't anything to choose between the newcomers and the rest of the guests. As soon as the boarding ramp had retracted behind the last flunky, the journey resumed. There was no sign of the new heading belowdecks; nevertheless, Dash knew they had begun the long journey west through Slauce Canyon toward Mos Espa. Standing beside the open shutter, he was grateful for the cooler draft as the temperature dropped outside.

One of the moons rose, then a second. The canyon walls gradually widened into a broader vista. The lights of Carnthout and then Bestine appeared to the south before dropping away in their wake. All the while, a skiff, manned by guards scanning the landscape for threats, escorted the barge off its port side. Presumably the other mirrored it on the starboard side. Behind Dash and Hex, the guests, indifferent to the progress of their rolling party, grew ever more riotous.

Although he could not put his finger on the precise threat, Dash's nerves were screaming at him. Something was about to go south. Jabba appeared friendly and overbearing, much as he had presented himself for the past three days; nonetheless, Dash was certain it was as much an act as his own pretense of being a grateful guest.

Reluctantly, he accepted another plate of food at Jabba's urging.

"His Stupendousness remarks that these droidekas make excellent servants. However, they aren't as satisfying as slaves."

Dash tried to smile at Jabba but feared his smile was rather anemic, so he glanced toward the three droidekas currently serving drugs and drinks. The other two were making patrol rounds on the upper deck.

"The jocund Jabba urges you to have more food, and wishes you to know that it is a pity you do not choose to enjoy the other pleasures he offers. Your faces are not the only similarities between you and Boba Fett; he does not drink or take spice either. Perhaps it is something about the Fett line? Yet the splendid Jabba observes that Jango never refused alcohol or girls. He believes it may have been something the longnecks did in the cloning process." The slug's laugh boomed through the room and his sycophants sniggered along with him. The annoying Kowakian monkey lizard leaped through the rafters above the clones' heads, screeching with glee.

Dash inclined his head and checked that his stance was still relaxed. It wouldn't be long now, provided they could allay whatever suspicions Jabba had. Beside him, Hex was stony-faced. The man hadn't done too badly, but it was clear he was no actor. "You'll forgive us, Jabba," said Dash with the most casual air he could muster, "we're simple soldiers and what's more, we're working. We wouldn't be much use to you hung over or high. When we reach Mos Espa safely, maybe we'll accept some moderate alcoholic refreshment."

"His Mightiness will hold you to that, Master Clone. He suggests that it must be a boring party without any diversions."

"We don't mind. Like I said, we're working. We always put business before pleasure. I'm sure you understand—you do the same."

Jabba grabbed an amphibian and spoke around the mouthful, bones crunching audibly. Dash feigned a quick check of the room to avoid having to watch the poor creature's death throes. "The magnificent Jabba agrees that this is so. He jests that you are brothers under the skin."

"Something like that," Dash agreed noncommittally. "I've noticed you have your fingers in a lot of pies. Must be interesting work."

Jabba boomed jovially. "His Weightiness begs to disagree with you. This is not a saying his people employ."

"No doubt. What term do you prefer?" Dash's nerves twisted tighter as the minutes ticked down. Maintaining this ruse was getting more difficult by the second.

"The Hutts say that they grasp many frogs."

Dash chuckled and elbowed Hex, who made an effort to appear amused. They had taken care not to check their chronos often, but it must be less than an hour to detonation.

"The time has come, Master Clones; the sapient Jabba instructs you to show him how to deactivate the droidekas."

"I'm sorry," said Hex in confusion. Was it affected or genuine? "We showed Bib Fortuna and the captain of your guards. Fortuna said this wouldn't interest you."

"His Prodigiousness is interested in how easy it is to tamper with the system."

"Oh." Hex rallied. "It's as secure as the most up-to-date, two-way encryption can make it. In order to execute a command, authentication codes must be entered by two users. In addition, the brain must verify a unique code from the droid." He pulled a remote off his belt. "This controls the brain. It can be set to respond to a security code or to biometric data or both. Without proper authentication, it won't function. It isn't keyed to your biometrics yet, so you'll have to use the code. Switch modes from service to security or the other way." Hex showed Jabba the combination. "Shut down." Another combination. "Activation."

"The colossal Jabba will now take control of the droids, Master Clone, with his own security code."

Hex twisted his lips and spread his hands. "It's a little more involved than that. The new code has to be input directly into the brain. I can go do that if you want, but it's probably better to wait until there aren't so many people around to spy." He smiled winsomely, tension hiding behind amiability. Jabba probably couldn't see it, however—Dash hoped. "This is the one thing you have to be careful of with this system. Anyone with the codes and the remote can control the droids. The failsafe is that the system is set to industry standard to require that two users confirm all actions."

"Then you will show him the current code so he can deactivate these droids."

Hex tilted his chin to one side before giving a little sigh. "All right. It's your show. I am professionally obligated to state it's a bad idea. Your security will be compromised while the droids are shut down."

"The barge is guarded. The droids are merely here on a trial basis. If you offer further resistance, the sagacious Jabba will know you are up to something."

"I'm not resisting. See?" Hex handed the remote to Jabba, who entered the code with surprising dexterity. He gestured imperiously to Fortuna to confirm the action. They issued the command and the two droids on the far side of the cabin froze in place.

"You have surprised the perceptive Jabba, Master Clone. He thought you were planning an attack with the droids."

"Hey! I'm _on_ this boat. You think I'd take that risk? If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it the day we arrived. I served almost seven years, first in the GAR, later in the Stormtrooper Corps. I faced off against Gunray and Poggle and all the other Seppies. Afterward I spent five years under Lord Vader mopping up dissent. Compared to them, you're a big, soft target. If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead." Hex had dropped the friendly retired soldier act and looked as dangerous as he actually was. After a moment, he resumed his genial professional persona. "All I want to do is sell some droids and make some money."

"His Shrewdness is amused by your cheek, Master Clone. To show his appreciation, he informs you that you are off duty. He bids you enjoy the party." The translator paused, exuding smugness. "The glorious Jabba has prepared a _stimulating_ surprise for you."

Jabba gestured and the crowd grew more raucous.

Dash and Hex exchanged uncertain glances. The guests were already intoxicated and drugged and gorged. What more could Jabba give them that would provoke such glee? The men were poorly positioned to determine what was causing a new wave of motion near the door.

The crowd parted and Pligu appeared with Yenzon on a chain, her eyes lowered.

Jabba leered.

"His Sensuousness is pleased you enjoyed her company last evening and wishes to know if you still desire her."

Dash's heart sank. There weren't supposed to be any slaves aboard. She must have been in that locked cabin in the prow. Now they had to get her away too. And if he was tracking the time correctly, they only had about half an hour to do it. The dancing master handed her chain to Jabba, who tugged her closer. She went reluctantly but without resistance. The crowd roared lewdly. Dash almost sprang forward to seize the chain, restraining himself with an effort. Rescuing her required subtlety—not flamboyant action, like some Jedi tumbling into the room in a blaze of lightsabers and glory.

Hex had tensed beside him and Dash discreetly nudged him with the elbow that was out of Jabba's direct line of sight. One tiny blessing in Jabba's disgusting assault on Yenzon—his attention was occupied. Dash turned his head slightly and slowly lowered his left eyelid. Hex inhaled sharply. Good. He'd probably play along. Dash pasted a lascivious expression on his face, stepping forward in assumed eagerness.

Jabba looked at him and laughed mockingly.

"You may have her, Master Clone." Dash had never hated the translator's falsely prim voice more. "The slave girl is his favorite today, and the bountiful Jabba will share her with you tonight."

Jabba held out the chain. Dash fumbled for it as if unable to drop his fascinated gaze from the beautiful girl.

The Hutt laughed again. Dash had never heard a sound more depraved. "The bawdy Jabba expects that you saw the staterooms in the forward section. You may take her there." Jabba gestured to Hex. Dash couldn't see the other man behind him but could sense how tautly he was holding himself. "Master Clone Hex as well. His Magnanimity bids you enjoy the rest of the night. He always rewards those who please him." Jabba licked a glob of drool off his lip.

Dash, reluctantly holding the chain, made his way toward the door. His skin crawled. Distantly, he hoped Hex was on their heels. He tightened his hand around the chain. Only a little longer. The crowd pressed around them, jeering and shouting unintelligibly, words whose meaning was nonetheless clear. He focused on breathing and kept his eyes on the exit. Behind him, Yenzon made no sound. His heart ached for the degradation she was suffering. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the corridor.

The hatch of the forward cabin slid open. A large bed was bolted to one wall. There was no other furniture. He glanced at his chrono. _Haar'chak!_ Twenty minutes. He raced to examine the shutters. They were louvered and he looked out briefly, then turned his attention to the frame. _Osi'kyr!_ The shutters were bolted heavily. And hastily. This had been done since their walkthrough.

He whirled toward Hex. "What are we going to do about the droids?"

Hex stared at him. "What?"

"The droids. You deactivated them."

"Oh. Right. No worries. They'll go off when they get the signal."

Thank the ancestors for small mercies. Yenzon stood where he had dropped the chain. She had looked up at last, eyes filled with fear but without tears. Her breath came fast and uneven. Dash gestured Hex over to the shutters. The other man pulled a manual wrench off his belt and began wrestling with the bolts. Unfortunately, Dash had no tools on him, let alone something that could attack the heavy-duty bolts. He approached Yenzon.

"It will be all right," he told her softly. "We still won't hurt you."

She worried her lip, dark eyes apprehensive. "I know. It's—" she swallowed heavily and tried again. "He—Jabba…" She worked her hands. "He's going to kill you," she whispered. "They asked me about you—I didn't tell them anything! I swear! But later I overheard him telling Pligu—"

At that instant the door burst open and a pair of inebriated guests staggered in. Dash was in motion before he had consciously registered Yenzon's words, yelling to Hex, "I'll deal with it. Get that shutter down."

The Gotal bawled something in Huttese—a ribald comment from the sound of it—and staggered, apparently accidentally, against the door's lock pad. It activated. Dash jumped toward him to release a sizzling uppercut while grabbing his sensitive cone-shaped horn. The Gotal staggered. Dash followed up the first blow with a second that dazed him and sent him staggering into his friend.

Taking advantage of their distraction, Dash snatched the concealed knife from his boot. The attackers were drawing their blasters. Dash pounced to slide the knife between the Gotal's ribs before he could aim. He went limp.

Dash tugged on the knife. The blue-skinned Twi'lek fired at him, grazing his shoulder. He abandoned the knife, grappling with the Twi'lek and scrabbling for the blaster.

The Twi'lek was slightly larger than Dash and shoved hard. The clone hit the bed with the back of his knees. The Twi'lek kicked his feet out from under him. Dash fell back onto the mattress, the other man half on top of him. He stretched to grasp the fellow's blaster, but he lacked the leverage to switch their positions. They struggled interminably until a clunk sounded and the Twi'lek grunted. His grip briefly relaxed.

Dash shoved him off. As he scooted away, Yenzon struck the Twi'lek again with the end of her chain. Blood gushed from a gash on his head. Dash yanked the blaster from his hand. Before he could even aim it, Yenzon had plunged Dash's knife into the Twi'lek's back. Dash stared from his knife to her set face in awe.

She pushed her chin up.

Dash bowed his head in respect. "You were saying Jabba was planning to kill us?" he said ironically, reclaiming his knife and wiping it on the sheet.

"He told Pligu. You must escape. It is many hours to Mos Espa. Jabba will not be fooled for long. He will expect them to report your deaths."

"No problem," said Hex, still wrestling with the bolts.

Dash stowed his knife and checked his chrono. They were down to fifteen minutes. It took over five minutes to get all the bolts off one shutter. Someone knocked heavily on the door. Dash and Hex exchanged concerned looks. Hex peered out of the shutter and swore.

"What?" asked Dash.

"See for yourself."

Dash stared out and cursed as well. The starboard skiff had pulled back beside the barge—and the guards' blasters were aimed at their cabin. Jabba wasn't taking chances with their escape, apparently. Whoever was outside the door pounded louder, calling something in Huttese.

The clones looked at Yenzon. "He asks whether you are dead and demands they open the door."

Hex began rummaging in his belt. "Seven minutes to go, but we're not going to make it past that skiff."

The pounding grew more insistent.

Dash hurried to inspect the lock. It was a standard keypad, meaning an override code would open it from the other side. He fired two shots at the panel and reached in to pull out wires, grateful for the protection his gloves offered. That might hold for a few minutes.

Knocking the Twi'lek's body aside, he tore the sheets off the bed, carving them rapidly with his knife. "All right—time to go. Yenzon, my harness is too big—and you aren't dressed for this. Pardon me." He wrapped the strips of sheets around her shoulders, waist, and hips, rapidly adjusting the rappelling harness to her smaller frame. "I'm going to lower you toward the ground." He handed her the knife. "When the cable runs out, cut it and go toward the front of the barge. Stay between the vessels—the repulsorlifts will kill you if you get underneath them. I'm sorry I can't give you better clothing. Hex. Wrench." The other man tossed the tool and Dash attacked the bolt on her slave collar. Yenzon grunted. "Sorry. I don't have time to be more gentle."

"It doesn't matter," she said softly.

"How are we gonna do this?" Dash asked, squinting through the slats at the guards on the skiff.

Hex fingered two devices. "I'll toss this to distract them. As soon as it goes off, she should climb out. I'll wait five seconds and throw a couple grenades to cover your descent. I'll follow. We'll find shelter and I'll blow the barge."

"Sure," Dash said skeptically. "No problem at all."

Hex ignore the sarcasm. "Ready?"

Dash attached his EM anchor to the hull, then tore the shutter off its hinges. Hex pulled his arm back and hurled whatever he was holding at the skiff. The guards had begun firing the moment the shutter tore away from the barge. The clones ducked out of sight, shooting blindly out the window.

An explosion was followed by a gout of flame erupting behind the guards. As one, they whipped around.

"Go," shouted Hex.

Yenzon clambered onto the broad ledge of the porthole. Dash played out the cable, praying the improvised harness would hold. The rope ran through his hands. When it reached full length, he climbed out, keeping his head below Hex's cover fire. Yenzon's weight below him made it impossible to rappel in the traditional fashion, so he simply let the rope slide through his fingers. He knew the instant she cut herself free because the cable began to sway below him. He kept sliding. A meter and a half above the sand, the cable ran out. He dropped to the ground. Winded, he scrambled in a crouch between the barge and the skiff. By the time he reached the prow, Hex was at his back. They raced ahead, feet slipping and sliding in the sand, and tumbled down a slight depression. An explosion boomed from the skiff.

Yenzon was already at the deepest point of the gulley. The two men shielded her with their bodies and Hex entered a command in his remote. There was a heart-stopping pause as nothing happened. Dash realized he was holding his breath. He pressed a little closer toward the sand. The hollow wasn't much shelter but it was all they had if the barge did blow.

Hex seized his arm and pointed to his ears. Oh, right. Explosion. Dash glanced down; Yenzon already had her hands clapped over her ears. Dash followed suit just in time. The night lit up bright as day as the barge was consumed in a fiery inferno. The blast seemed to go on forever, an unending holocaust of noise and heat and flying debris. The concussion wave knocked Dash off his knees. He fell against Hex and partially on top of Yenzon. The depression they were in was just deep enough that the debris mostly went over them, though they all would have small burns.

When the apocalypse finally subsided, Dash and Hex clawed their way to the ridge of sand above them. Their ears rang. It would be hours before it subsided completely.

The barge was a burning hulk on the sand. Beside it, the skiff burned too. A figure was staggering away. Dash drew his blaster. A bright flash and the figure dropped to the sand. Dash had barely heard the sound of the shot.

The two men staggered around the wreckage. The second skiff raced away toward the west. Even as they watched, laser fire erupted from a rock formation to the north. The skiff veered, but it was too late—another explosion illuminated the night. Scratch and Commander Cody had come through.

Yenzon had come up between them. She gestured at the moons and Dash noticed for the first time how bright the night was. "It's the Grand Assembly," she said in wonder. "I never thought I'd see it." She shivered in the chilly air.

Dash fumbled for his comm. "Chatter."

" _Vod_. You detonated early."

"Yeah. We know. There was no choice. It looks like we got everyone in spite of it."

"That's good. Scratch said to thank Hex for letting him have a little fun on this mission."

"We'd have been glad to trade with him. Say—think we could hitch a ride?"

"Commander Cody's on his way." Chatter chuckled. "I'd ask for coordinates, but you set off quite a beacon."

"Yeah, yeah—very funny. Dash out."

They were all shivering by the time the commander arrived. "You seem wrung out, Troopers. Rough mission?"

"You could say that, sir," Dash said somberly.

"It's over now. Well done. Hop in."

They didn't reply. Dash rummaged in the cargo area while Hex helped Yenzon into the speeder. She gave a small smile at the heavy blanket he handed her.

When they reached the cliff where the snipers had taken station, Scratch greeted them boisterously. "What a show!" He slapped Hex on the shoulder.

Hex made no response.

" _Vod?_ Is something wrong?"

Hex shook his head wearily.

"What happened? I thought he'd be leaping for joy," he said to Dash.

"It was awful. Jabba deserved everything he got and then some."

Scratch stared beyond them. "You picked up a girl? Somehow I didn't peg you as the type."

"She's a slave." Dash's tone was heavy. "She risked her life for us."

"My respects, ma'am," Commander Cody said. "Welcome aboard. Let's get back to town, then. We have a report to deliver."


	21. Admitting of Modification

Anakin started down the dune east of Mos Espa, the newly risen sun casting sharp shadows before him. "What were you doing out here?" he asked Kit.

"Oh, watching the Three Sisters and wondering if we would succeed without you." The sand betrayed Kit and he slid a short distance before regaining his balance. "Somehow I had the feeling that you have to be with us."

"Have you heard from Cody and the others?"

Kit peered at him inquisitively. "They're clones, aren't they?"

"Yes. Some of the last."

"I was starting to suspect. They don't look as much alike as I would have expected." They had reached the foot of the dune. Ahead of them, Mos Espa's domed slave quarters were harshly outlined against the morning sky. "Chatter commed a while ago. The barge was destroyed with all hands and they're headed back. They might even be at the shop already. He requested that we—well, you—do something to free the slaves at the palace. They're ready to help if needed."

"Did they now?" Anakin's tone was wry. "What about the team at Jabba's?"

"Theec sent a message that they completed the deactivations shortly before first sunrise. I'm just waiting for confirmation from Lalla that everyone has been evacuated and the credits have been secured." Kit paused. "I admit I'm curious. Your clones are impressive, but how did they get that vault code?"

"An illegal piece of technology. I didn't ask how they acquired it. And everything else? Are the preparations complete for today?"

"Yes. The network has been deactivating chips all week. I'll meet you outside Jabba's box after you've secured the governor's cooperation."

"Good. Very good. Then it sounds like everything is going as planned."

"The Great Mother has blessed us." Kit's voice was solemn, but the corners of his eyes crinkled with a suppressed grin.

Anakin shot him a sideways glance. "I felt like an idiot when I realized why you were so keen to conclude our plot today."

Kit didn't even have the grace to look sheepish. "The Grand Assembly fell on Boonta Eve. When has that ever happened before? I knew if we were ever going to try, this was the time to do it."

"You and the old legends. What was it Lalla said?—sometimes you're her biggest child?" Anakin shook his head in mock reproof.

Kit bumped his arm. "Says the man who rode a krayt!"

"I didn't plan on that. In any case, with the provisional council's ratification of the Articles last week, the legalities are all in place. The final task is to make everything official with the announcement." Anakin smiled, scars pulling a little uncomfortably. "I knew you could do it."

Kit snorted. "Sure we could. We were never going to manage all those details ourselves."

"Not in the beginning. But the end here?—you did it all without me."

"Because everything was already in the works."

"If I learned anything from the Jedi and the Emperor, it was the value of thorough and flexible plans."

"Strange to think that Darth Vader is freeing slaves now," said Kit, a little disconcerted.

Anakin winced. "Former. But yes." On the words, the plan that had eluded him for the past three days presented itself, fully formed. "Speaking of that—I do need to make a slight change to today's plans. I will arrest the governor this morning before I join you at the arena."

"But—" Kit swiveled his head toward Anakin "—you said we wanted to persuade the Imps this revolution was no threat to their control of the planet. Won't arresting the governor do the opposite?"

"I expect it to."

"You _want_ to provoke the Empire?" Kit stopped in his tracks.

Anakin halted as well. "Yes. It's the opening gambit in my campaign against my master. I intend to lure him here so I can kill him."

Kit shook his head. "You're certifiable."

"Probably. People have been saying that for decades. But I _know_ my master." Anakin narrowed his eyes. "If I seek him out, he'll control the ground when we fight. I'll be at a great disadvantage. So I must draw him here to unfamiliar terrain. If he takes the bait—and he will—he will die." Anakin set out briskly through the still-shadowed streets, Kit scurrying to keep pace. "Today is the first step. We don't have much time. Are you coming to the shop?"

"Absolutely. I can't wait to see how your men react to you changing the plans at the last minute."

Anakin laughed. "I doubt they'll be surprised by that. Only by my name."

"Isn't that how you persuaded them to come?" They had reached the doorway of the shop.

"No. I paid them well. As far as they're concerned, I'm a shopkeeper named Kraytrider."

At the reminder of the events of the morning, Kitster stopped dead again, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a pole-axed dewback. Anakin grabbed his elbow to haul him inside. Scratch and Cody had already disassembled their weapons for cleaning. Dash and Chatter were inspecting the comms equipment by the dim light of the overhead lamp. The only surprise was the Pantoran girl wrapped in a blanket and sitting at the counter between Dash and Hex.

Cody glanced up as Anakin and Kitster entered. "Oh, you're back, sir. Mr. Banai told us you had left town. We were wondering if you truly meant to miss the rest of the operation."

Anakin's grin was predatory. "Wouldn't miss it to be Emperor himself. Did everything run smoothly?"

"You know what they say about plans," Cody replied, inspecting the barrel of his rifle. "But the mission was a success, which is probably what you care about."

"I see you brought someone back with you."

"We couldn't leave her behind, sir." Hex was all earnestness. "Even though the droids were supposed to replace all the slaves on the barge, Jabba brought her out shortly before we were planning to escape. He was—" He exchanged a grim glance with Dash. Hardened veterans though they were, both men appeared shaken by their experience. "We would have brought her anyway, but Yenzon risked her life for us."

Kit caught Anakin's eye with a nod. He pulled out his comm and stepped to the workbench in the far corner while Anakin circled the counter, grabbing a scanner as he dropped his pack to the floor. "I see. I take it the plan really went awry if you were on the barge." He approached the girl slowly. "I assume your tracker is still active?"

She jerked a small nod and shivered.

He held out the scanner. "This will find it and turn it off. Will you let me help you? Oh, my name's Kraytrider."

"The Krayt Rider? Freedom bringer?" she said in a breathy voice.

"Er, well—"

"Yes," said Kit firmly from the corner.

Her breath caught and she rose at his gesture. The scanner beeped as it passed over her left leg. A dancer. Of course it would be in the leg…

He stood up and stepped back. She relaxed infinitesimally. "It's all right now. The tracker is off and the bomb is deactivated."

"Bomb!" Hex jerked to his feet, knocking his stool to the floor.

"At ease, Trooper. Her slave chip has a bomb attached. All of them do. It's the main way slave masters control the slaves."

Kit had barely finished his call when his comm chimed. A staticky voice spoke briefly—something Anakin didn't catch. "That was Lalla," Kit told him, attaching his comm to his belt. "Everybody's out and the credits are secured."

"Congratulations, President. It appears your government will have enough funds to meet its obligations."

Kit rolled his eyes. "If you're arresting the governor, what's the point of paying taxes?"

"A fair point." Anakin set the scanner down and sat on a stool at the end of the counter. "In that case, you'll have more available for economic development and rehabilitation."

"You're a pain in the neck sometimes, Ani."

Anakin snorted. "If that's the worst you can think of to say about me…" He turned to Cody. "Kit tells me you called in a request to free the slaves."

Hex drew a shuddering breath. "I don't know if you realize what it's like there, sir. Yenzon told us Jabba would have her killed if she didn't please us. He expected us to—" he broke off and paced quickly away from the counter— "He just— _uses_ them. Like they're…"

"Property?" Anakin suggested. "Products?"

"Yes," said Dash.

"I think you'll be glad to hear that Lalla's group succeeded in evacuating all the slaves from Jabba's palace. They're hiding in safe locations throughout the desert. Their transmitters have been deactivated and they'll be resettled and reeducated."

"That's good to hear, sir." Hex fumbled for his stool and set it upright again.

"It's been in the works for months."

"I wondered," Dash said with a faint smile. "Your contact code," he elaborated in response to Anakin's puzzled expression.

"I did tell you we had other plans in play." He considered the group. "In fact, I'd like to ask if you'd be willing to assist with the rest of the project."

Before he could explain further, a Togruta man and a Devaronian woman arrived at the shop door. Kit stepped forward. "Thanks for coming promptly. It sounds like she's been through a lot, and a female host will be more comfortable for her." He said to Yenzon, "These are members of our freedom trail. They're going to take you somewhere safe to rest."

"And protect you from any Boonta Eve violence." Anakin rose to fetch a spare cloak. The men averted their eyes while she replaced the blanket.

"It's true?...Freedom on Boonta Eve? My—my people? The others—? They're all safe?"

Anakin nodded again.

"Will I be able to see them again?"

"Of course," said Kit. "In a few days—after things settle down. For now—rest in safety. You can trust them." He gestured toward the Devaronian and the Togruta.

Yenzon laid the blanket on a stool. Dash and Hex rose to their feet. "Thank you for saving my life."

"You saved mine too." Dash examined her gravely. "We wouldn't have left you behind."

"Never," said Hex.

She gave a small smile and followed her guides out of the shop into the sunshine. Anakin switched off the now-redundant overhead light.

He motioned for Dash and Hex to sit down again. "As I was saying, do you men think you'd be interested in more work?" He strode behind the counter. Kit sank onto a seat beside the workbench.

"Might depend on what it is, sir," Cody said, "but this was a pretty good gig. With the bonus of taking out some first-class crooks."

"I suppose, then, that your response depends on what you think of the Empire." Anakin pulled a ration bar out of his pack before he settled onto his stool. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

The clones looked sidewise at each other.

"I never thought about it much." Scratch rubbed a soft cloth along the barrel and stock of his rifle. "It was my job to fight—first in the GAR, then for the Empire. I'm a soldier. I just did my job, never mind what government gave the orders….Anyway, turns out there wasn't much difference between them."

The others murmured agreement. Dash shrugged. "Though the Empire did one thing the Republic never did—they let us retire. And removed the _etyc_ chips."

"That was Lord Vader," Cody said, setting his own reassembled rifle on the counter. "The order for their removal came directly from him. I don't think the Emperor ever cared enough to think about it."

Kitster glanced at Anakin, who gave a small shake of his head. No one seemed to notice.

"Lord Vader was tough," said Hex, "but say what you will about his command style, he always treated clones like any other trooper. He never acted like we were less human than the vols. I guess I'm not surprised to hear he was the one who made sure we got the chips out."

Anakin stirred uncomfortably. It was one thing to inquire into their general opinions on the Empire when they were unaware of his identity. It was something else entirely to hear their opinion of him personally while he sat beside them. But they wouldn't speak openly if he confessed now. Instead, he said, "Vader is out of the picture. I'm interested in your opinions of the Emperor."

At their hesitation, he added, "I promise—your opinions won't leave this room. I certainly won't report you."

Cody studied him with a familiar penetrating gaze. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he said, "All right. In complete confidence—and I will deny I ever said this if anyone repeats it—I hold no brief for the Emperor. He was the one who triggered the order that—well, an order I didn't want to execute. And he never cared about my brothers. When we were forced to retire, it wasn't because he was grateful for our service—thanking us for saving the Republic's collective _shebs_ from the clankers. He just wanted to have an all-vol force—to boast that the Empire was superior to the Republic because it didn't have to depend on an army bred to protect it. Its own sons would volunteer to serve." Cody's mimicry of the propaganda screeds was scathing. "I also heard through the grapevine that our severance packages were Lord Vader's doing too. If it hadn't been for him, we probably wouldn't have pensions or benefits. So, yeah—I support the Empire because it's politic. But I'm not a big fan of the Emperor."

"Really? The pensions were Lord Vader's doing, too?" Scratch rubbed his scar. "The official letter said it was gratitude from the Empire for our service."

"How long you been in the army, _vod_?" scoffed Chatter, flicking a switch on his comms console back and forth. "You know the official crap ain't never the real story. Yeah, makes a lot of sense to me that the letter was nothing more than bureaucratic bantha fodder to cover the truth. And if anyone would stand up for the _vod'e_ , it'd be Vader."

"And the Emperor?" asked Anakin.

"Oh, what does it matter to a grunt like me who rules the galaxy?" Hex rubbed his palms against his thighs. "Okay—I'll confess that I've sometimes read a little Rebel propaganda. And they have a point; the Emperor is a corrupt _chakaar_. But I don't see there's much I can do about it, so I keep my head down and my nose clean and do what I can for my brothers."

"Is that the way the rest of you feel?" Anakin asked.

They grunted and nodded.

Cody said, "I guess that about sums it up. I don't suppose any of us would mourn his loss. But it's just cantina talk, anyway."

"Maybe not," said Anakin. "I'm putting together an operation, and you five would be great assets. But you have to be willing to damage Imperial property and assault Imperial personnel."

Scratch gawked. "The Emperor?"

"Eventually. Immediately—I plan to arrest the Imperial governor here in Mos Espa before the podrace and send him back to Coruscant on a slow shuttle to tell the Emperor that I'm behind it all. I could use a squad as my escort."

Tensely, the clones eyed each other. After a pause, Dash said, "You're _dini'la, jag_."

Anakin chuckled and winked at Kitster. "You're not the first person to tell me that even this morning, Trooper. In fact, Cody here has said it to me more than once over the years."

"I have?" Cody blinked. "Excuse me, sir, but I'm certain I never met you before this operation."

Anakin sobered. "As it happens, you have. I have deceived you all. When I stumbled into this revolution, I thought I would provide assistance behind the scenes and then retreat into the shadows, but three days ago I learned something that has changed my mind. Now I _will_ destroy the Emperor." He found confession was no easier this time than it had been the last. He clenched his fists until his joints creaked. "I am Anakin Skywalker."

Cody snapped, "General Skywalker died in the purges."

"No, I didn't." Before Anakin could continue, the door to his apartment opened.

"Oh, you're back." The distinctive accent silenced the shop. "Your friend has been trying to find you."

Cody whipped around so fast, he upset his stool. Kenobi stepped forward to steady him.

_"G-G-General?_ But—you're dead. I shot you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a vocabulary:
> 
> etyc [ETT-eesh] – dirty, filthy  
> shebs [shebs] – backside, rear (somewhat vulgar)  
> chakaar [chah-KAR] – corpse thief, petty criminal, general term of abuse  
> dini'la [dee-NEE-lah] – crazy  
> jag [jag] – man


	22. Untangling the Web

Silence reverberated through the room. Light poured through the courtyard door to illuminate Cody's ashen face. The clones sat motionless, attention riveted to the tableau.

It was Kenobi who broke it, stumbling back a step and grabbing his lightsaber. Staring warily at the stricken Cody, he demanded, "Anakin? What is this?"

Cody paled further and his eyes flickered toward Anakin before returning to Kenobi's weathered face.

"I was planning to speak with you in a moment. But since you're here—I brought in the clones several weeks ago for an operation…" Anakin passed his hand over his face, all at once aware of his exhaustion. "It's complicated. Sit down, and I'll read you in." He gestured to the unignited lightsaber. "Put that away. You don't need it."

Kenobi kept an uneasy eye on Cody. "I think I might—at least until I understand what made my commander fire on me without provocation the last time we met."

Cody jerked to attention, his expression a painful mixture of shame, relief, and guilt.

"I said, _sit down._ " Anakin rose to his feet. Reaching through the Force, he pinched the bundle of nerves that controlled Kenobi's hand.

"Ouch!" The lightsaber dropped toward the ground. Kenobi shook out his arm.

Anakin summoned the hilt, ignoring Kit's gasp. "Now, let's discuss this like somewhat civilized people. There's no need to clutch your weapon as we do it."

"Give that back," Kenobi demanded.

"No. Not until I'm sure you won't destroy my shop or damage my allies." He clipped the lightsaber to his belt and it slipped under his tattered cloak.

"What did you do? And how?"

"I pinched your radial nerve."

"Where did you learn that sort of control over the Force?"

"I have four prosthetic limbs," Anakin said drily. "I am intimately familiar with nerves and their functions." He dropped back onto his stool with a grim air. "I could have choked you, if you prefer. This seemed more humane—and with less risk of damage."

Kenobi pressed his lips together. After a long pause, he sank gingerly onto a stool as far from Cody as he could manage. As though his action had released a containment field, the other men began to fidget, eyes averted from the confrontation. "There was no need to confiscate my lightsaber, as though I were a recalcitrant padawan."

"I am enforcing a truce. Cody won't attack you—he feels guilty enough about Utapau as it is. And if it will set your mind at ease, their chips have been removed. They present no danger to you."

"Chips? What are you talking about?"

Anakin frowned. "Surely you remember. The chips that supposedly inhibited aggression."

"Oh, those chips. To improve their functionality within the command structure." Kenobi nodded. "Why should the fact the chips have been removed set me at ease? Won't their absence lead to more aggression, rather than less?"

"They weren't meant to inhibit aggression," Dash muttered.

"They weren't?"

The clones clammed up.

"Contingency orders were embedded in the chips," said Anakin. "They couldn't refuse them when properly issued and verified."

"Contingencies? For what?"

"Among other things—an order to kill the Jedi."

"An order—Kill…?" He looked from Anakin to Cody and back again. "How—" he wet his upper lip— "how did we not know about this?" His eyes wandered back to Cody. "Every clone?"

Cody stared at the wall and jerked his head in an affirmative.

"That—that was why…?"

Cody's only response was to clench his fists. Anakin observed him with concern, prepared to intervene if he showed any signs of instability. It was plain the others wanted to offer comfort, but the ingrained habits of military propriety interfered.

After a long silence, Kenobi asked in a soft voice, "Who ordered those chips?"

"A better question would be who ordered the army?" Anakin crossed his arms and scowled at Kenobi.

"Sifo-Dyas."

"Sifo-Dyas was a front. The Chancellor ordered them—and signed off on the purchase order. Dooku hired Jango."

Kenobi rubbed his beard. "Jango said he was hired by a man called…err… Tyranix? I think that was it?"

" _Darth_ Tyranus," Anakin corrected.

Kenobi dropped his hand. "That was Dooku? You really mean to say that Palpatine ordered the army? Secretly? But…if Dooku hired Jango…He and Sifo-Dyas were friends, it's true…"

"Yes. The war was a plot between my master and Dooku. To destabilize the galaxy in order to found the Empire."

"But what was Dooku's role in this? Did he expect to be welcomed back into the Republic?"

"You forget already—it wasn't going to be a Republic anymore. And I'm certain he did. If I hadn't killed him, no doubt the two of them had a plan in place to restore his position." Anakin's mouth twisted, pulling his scars painfully. "Of course—my master didn't actually want Dooku, did he?"

Kenobi's mouth grew pinched. "No. So it was all orchestrated from the beginning. The availability of an army. The emergency powers. The entire Separatist Crisis. Naboo? Qui-Gon?"

"And the chips." Anakin met each clone's eyes in turn, except Cody, who was now staring at his boots. "Listen to me. The Emperor—and the Jedi—used you abominably. The Jedi were victims too, but they should have asked more questions. They should have withstood the political pressure. The Senate should have refused to vote the Chancellor emergency powers. I should have resisted…well, everything he ever told me. There is blame enough to go around when it comes to the rise of the Empire and the fall of the Republic. But the one group that bears no responsibility at all is you."

"But—sir—You really are General Skywalker?" Hex tugged at his gauntlets, then stilled himself with a visible effort. Anakin nodded once. "Our generals depended on us. They believed we were loyal to them. They deserved better than being shot down by their own troops."

"They did. But so did you. You deserved better than to be used as property by the Republic and the Jedi."

"We did not use the GAR as property." Kenobi surged to his feet in indignation.

Anakin glared. "An army bought and bred, with chips in their heads. That doesn't sound like slavery to you? And so far as I'm aware, no one in the Republic or the Order stopped to think about any of it. They just used them like the slaves they were. So much for your vaunted freedom and justice."

"I—I…" Kenobi trailed off. Anakin remained silent. Let him stew about it. Better late than never to consider the ethical dilemma the Jedi had ignored. Kitster and the clones were silent too. Cody raised his head, some of the shame fading from his expression. Several minutes passed before Kenobi roused. He sank heavily onto a stool.

"You're right. We never did consider it. I wasn't on the Council at the time, but I never heard that it had ever been discussed." He paused, then sighed. "I suppose we paid the price of our blindness."

Anakin grunted. "You could say that."

"So—the chips were removed? When?" Kenobi asked Cody.

Cody glowered. "When we were forcibly retired five years after the founding of the Empire. Lord Vader ordered them removed."

"You did?" Kenobi regarded Anakin in surprise.

" _What?!"_ Cody snapped back to attention.

The men lurched to their feet, wide-eyed. Despite their varying superficial differences, at this moment they looked exactly alike. Cody tried to speak twice before he choked out, "General Skywalker became _Darth Vader?_ But, sir—Wha— _Why?"_ The words had no sooner escaped his mouth than he blanched and blurted, "I beg your pardon, my lord, and withdraw the question. Please excuse me. It was the—the shock."

The temperature in the room plunged. "I am no one's lord. You will not address me as such."

"Yes, my lo—sir." Cody gulped, sweat standing out on his brow.

Anakin became aware that the other clones were holding their breath. He made a conscious effort to release his displeasure to the Force. "At ease. I have no intention of choking anyone. And your question was entirely reasonable, Commander. The whole story is too long—and too personal. However, if you are to work with me, you have a right to know the relevant parts of what happened."

He took two quick paces to the end of the counter, then back the other way before coming to a halt. He clenched his hands on his belt, nerves twanging. "The Emperor offered me something I needed desperately—or believed I did—in exchange for swearing allegiance to him. He issued that order you didn't want to follow right after I agreed, Commander. He told me the Jedi must be destroyed so we could have peace. I had sworn myself to him. To his vision for the galaxy. So I led the march on the Temple."

Anakin was assaulted by the waves of revulsion rolling off Hex. "Did you serve in the 501st?" he asked gently.

"Yes, my—Yes, sir. I was transferred in after the Battle of Coruscant."

Anakin's gut twisted in a long-unfamiliar emotion. Shame. "I am sorry. I don't know that I could have prevented the Purges, but I wish I hadn't led them. It would have been better to have died than to have become _dar'jetii_. I was an _or'dinii._ Such a fool." He forced himself to draw a raspy breath. "Listen to me. I want you to hear this and believe me. I had a choice and I made the wrong one. I bear full responsibility for what I did. _You_ didn't have a choice. You were slaves. _You bear no responsibility for following that order."_

He maintained eye contact, willing them to believe him. They began to shift uncomfortably.

At last, Hex said, "Did you really give the order to remove the chips?"

"Yes. It was far too little. Far too late. But I believed you had more than earned your freedom."

"Thank you." He deferred to Cody. "I'll do whatever you decide, _al'verde_. But after this morning, I have no regrets about 'damaging Imperial property and assaulting Imperial personnel,' whatever the objective may be." His grin showed all his teeth.

Cody glanced around the group. "Is that the way the rest of you feel?" The others nodded. He gnawed his lower lip before meeting Anakin's eyes. "All right, General. We're in."

"I'm not a general, either. Call me Anakin." At their shocked faces, he said, "You're not in the army anymore and neither am I. We're all just retired soldiers together. Well, in my case, I'm a deserter—twice over. I'm not entitled to any rank." Discomfort radiated off them. He sighed. "All right, if you can't manage Anakin, call me Skywalker or Kraytrider. I don't much mind which. But definitely _not_ Vader or my lord."

Cody rubbed his finger along his jawline. "We'll try, sir." He paused. He still looked a little wan, but a roguish twinkle lit his eyes. "'Vader's out of the picture', eh?"

Anakin shrugged. "All right—not out of it. Just—on the other side."

"Ah—I see. _From a certain point of view."_

Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "If we're done quoting Kenobi, I'd like to get on with this morning's plans." He motioned for everyone to resume their seats.

Settling back on his stool, Kenobi asked, "So—these plans. What are they exactly?"

"We're in the final stages of a revolution. To that end, Cody and his men assassinated Jabba several hours ago." Anakin held up a hand. "Save your shocked exclamations. You'll need them later. At the podrace today, Kitster, as President of the Provisional Council, will announce the establishment of a new government and the emancipation of the slaves. In our original plans, I was deputized by the Council to inform Colonel Semchan of the change in regime and to assure him that, in accordance with galactic law, Tatooine will continue to meet its Imperial obligations."

Anakin was tempted to laugh at Kenobi's gobsmacked expression. He settled for exchanging an amused glance with Kit.

Sobering, he continued, "I'm changing the plan, however. Now it is imperative to draw the Emperor's attention to Tatooine and to me, so Darth Vader will arrest the governor for corruption and abuse of his office. I will put Semchan on a slow ship to Imperial Center, where the report I have surfaced will, no doubt, make its way to the Emperor's ear. I will intimidate the rest of the garrison into deserting in the wake of the arrest, leaving us free of Imperial interference. Cody—"

"Sir!"

"At ease, Commander. You and your men will assume roles as my personal agents. In the likely event that someone questions my identity, you will confirm it. Darth Vader's preference for clones in the units he commanded is well-enough known that your testimony will add veracity to my claim. And if necessary, I'll engage in some judicious Force choking." Anakin winced as the intended joke fell flat.

After an uncomfortable moment, he turned his attention to Kit. "Proceed to the race course and be prepared to make the announcement, but wait for me. I have some things to say during your speech. If I'm late, stall the start of the race."

"How?" Kit blinked rapidly. "Nobody cares what a minor shopkeeper wants."

"Get word to the announcers that Jabba has been delayed. They can't start without him, anyway."

Kit heaved a sigh and pushed himself to his feet. "All right. But this is not what I envisioned when you dropped that datapad in front of me."

"I suppose not. But you did want to free the slaves. We all must be prepared to sacrifice to achieve our ends." Anakin assumed a pompous imitation of a Coruscanti accent on the last sentence.

Kenobi groaned. "If you're going to quote Palpatine…"

"I was forced to listen to his speeches for years. Can I help it if some of the phrases stuck in my head?"

Ignoring the mock complaint, Kenobi said, "I don't see how this will lead to his defeat, though."

"I don't have time to explain it all." Anakin checked the chrono on the wall and rose. "The race begins in three hours and I have a lot to do before then. But the final aim is to lure him to Tatooine, using myself as bait, so that I can control the ground we fight on."

Kenobi folded his arms. "…That's ambitious. What makes you think he'll come to you?"

"His arrogance. And desperation to ensure I'm neutralized. You wanted a plan to bring him down? This is the first stage."

"But you don't have a lightsaber. Unless you're planning to keep mine."

"I do now." He held it up. "Oh, you can have this back." He offered Kenobi's weapon, which the older man returned to its accustomed place on his belt.

"May I see yours?" Kenobi asked with diffidence.

Anakin hesitated before he handed it over. Kenobi scrutinized it in silence, turning it in his hands as he probed with the Force. Anakin was surprised by an unexpected flash of pride at Kenobi's nod of approval; the older man almost smiled as he returned the weapon.

"It's exceptionally well-constructed. Very different from the others you've made. Marvelous work with the dual crystal, by the way—I've never encountered one like it. Where did you get it?"

Kit choked lightly. Anakin met his eyes in shared understanding.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a vocabulary:  
> darjet'ii [dar-JAY-tee] – Sith  
> or'dinii [ohr-DEE-nee] – a fool  
> al'verde [AHL-vair-day] – commander


End file.
